Descent Into Darkness
by Gypsy Queen 7734
Summary: After a night of partying, two teens find themselves in Middle-earth. As they search for the way home, they discover that that world has more in store for them than they ever bargained for. Dark fic. Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story starts in present day England in Chapter 1, followed by Year 2000 S.A. (Second Age) in Middle-earth.

If you're expecting a fluffy tale centered upon the Elves and Dwarves, then this is not the story for you. This fic deals with the Black Númenóreans of Umbar.

Warnings: language, violence, dark themes, and some graphic sexual situations. Please note that some of the chapters will have an "M" rating, but not all.

All things pertaining to Middle-earth belong to late, great J.R.R. Tolkien. All original characters are mine. Reviews are most humbly appreciated, and feed the muse!

To those of you that have read, reviewed, alerted, or favorited this story, I apologize for the repost. I was attempting to change the rating of some of the later chapters, and discovered that I had to delete the story in its entirety in order to accomplish that. I'm sure there's probably an easier way to do it, but unfortunately, I'm not computer literate! Sorry for the inconvience.

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Chapter One: Birthday Bliss

The pleasant, sunny summer morning greeted Brandon when he awoke from his slumber. He crawled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. After emptying his bladder, he climbed into claw foot tub, turned on the water and began to bathe. It was important to the young man that today of all days, be perfect; a word seldom used in his world of late.

Today, he and Gweneth would be celebrating her seventeenth birthday, even though it was still two days away. Brandon felt horrible that his father and her mother had intended to wed on that very day, neither one of them taking into consideration that it was Gwen's birthday. It pissed her off, but she kept quiet just the same.

The young man had planned a morning of four wheeling followed by a picnic lunch. It would be their last excursion before leaving for school the following week, him to university, her to boarding school. Brandon couldn't help but worry about his future stepsister. He could see that she was plummeting into an abyss of drugs and drink, and he feared that he wouldn't be there to save her, again.

After dressing, he descended the spiral staircase, and crossed through the sprawling manor to the kitchen. The young man double-checked with the chef that Gwen's special lunch would be ready by noon. Brandon had requested that the meal consist of typical American fare, since that's where the girl was from; she detested English cuisine.

It was half past ten when he found himself knocking on her bedroom door. "Are you awake?" he asked as he opened the door a crack and peeked in. "Gwen?" he queried. He could hear the sound of a hairdryer through the partially opened bathroom door. He crept inside, closing the door gently behind him. "Gwen?" called Brandon softly as he approached the inner chamber. He pushed the door wider and a vision of loveliness filled his eyes. Gwen was bent over, blow-drying her long golden hair, rear facing him, in nothing but her bra and panties. He quickly turned in attempt to suppress the inappropriate thoughts that had flashed through his mind. He banged loudly on the bathroom door before retreating to an overstuffed chair in her bedroom.

Only a moment later, she came out bathroom, brushing her hair. Brandon averted his eyes by picking up the latest issue of _Teen Vogue_ that lay on the table beside the chair, haphazardly scanning through the pages.

"Good morning," she greeted cheerfully as she lit up a cigarette. "I see you're up and raring to go," she continued as she walked over to one of the wardrobes, inspecting its contents.

"I see that you're not," responded the young man, stealing a glance at the near naked beauty.

"Well, I'm not much of morning person now, am I?" snickered Gweneth.

"I wish you would hurry and dress already!" blurted out Brandon, averting his eyes once more. He didn't like the warm tingling feeling that was starting to coarse through his body. _Damn you to hell, father_, he thought to himself.

The statuesque blonde ambled over to Brandon once she had dressed in a pair of black sweat pants and a pink tank top (much to his relief.) Gwen snatched the magazine out of his hand and glanced at the opened pages.

"Pfft," she sounded. "It's not even of me!"

"Oh, are you in this issue?" he queried. She rolled her eyes as she flipped the magazine closed, holding the cover inches from his face. There on the cover was Gweneth in one of her playful, seductive poses.

"What are you - blind?" she asked, hardly attempting to conceal her sarcasm. The birthday girl tossed the issue onto his lap.

Brandon let the magazine fall to the floor as he got to his feet. "Happy birthday, Gwen," he said as he embraced her warmly.

"Thanks," she replied as she took a drag of her cigarette, tossing her golden locks over her shoulder. "Don't I get a present?" she asked, her hand held out expectantly.

"Of course," answered Brandon, pulling a small box out of his pocket. "I hope you like it." He nervously chewed on his bottom lip as she undid the small bow. Inside the box was a silver ring in the shaped of a coiled serpent with ruby eyes. "I found it at an antique shop in London," revealed the young man who waited impatiently for her reaction.

"It's so cool," remarked Gweneth as she slid it on her ring finger. "I love it!" She held her hand up, admiring the new trinket. "Thanks, again, Brand," she said sincerely as she hugged him and placed a kiss on his cheek. "So, you ready?"

"Yeah, let's go," instructed the dark-haired eighteen year old. He let out a heavy sigh when he saw that she was taking her purse with her. Brandon knew damn well what was concealed within it, but he knew that there was no point in arguing with her, it would only tick her off. He led her out of the room, and out of the fine home of his ancestors.

The spent the next hour and a half riding their four wheelers all over the 250 acre estate, enjoying the beauty that the English countryside had to offer. At twelve thirty, Brandon made her wait under a towering elm tree beside the lake. He returned thirty minutes later, instructing her to follow him. They rode over the rolling terrain through the woods to a spot that Gweneth had never been before.

"We'll have to go on foot from here," advised Brandon as he led the way up the stony path. There was no possible way they could have taken the four wheelers down it; it was too narrow. The path wound along the bottom of a rock wall for some distance before it curved away in the opposite direction. Instead of following the lane, the young man climbed up onto an outcropping on the side of the wall. He grabbed Gweneth's hand and pulled her upon the ridge. "We're almost there," he added as they walked along the uneven stone trail.

"Where the hell are we going?" she queried breathlessly. She wasn't expecting to go on a hike.

When they reached a fissure in the wall, he stopped. "Okay, we're here," informed Brandon excitedly. "I do have one request though," he began again, pulling a checkered bandana from the pocket of his khakis. "I want to blindfold you."

"Blindfold me?" she questioned suspiciously. "Why?"

"It's a surprise," he answered with a smile, revealing the dimple on his chin. Gwen stood there with her hands on her hips. "Amuse me, just this once, please?"

"Fine," she said reluctantly. "But don't let me fall."

"Never," chuckled the British gent as he wrapped the cloth around her head. "Careful," he said as he led her into the cave. Brandon had her wrap her arms around his waist as he led her deeper into the chamber. The warmth of her breath on his neck nearly drove him mad. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to have her walk so closely behind him, her breasts rubbed against his back with each step. "We're here," he finally said, removing the blindfold.

"Wow!" exclaimed the birthday girl. "I'm impressed!" They stood in a large chamber that had been alit with hundreds of candles; the flickering flames seemed to make the entire room sparkle. He clicked the remote he had pulled from his pocket and a second later, _Bohemian Rhapsody _by Queen played on the boom box that sat just off the blanket that lay on the floor. Gweneth was still in awe as they sat down. A cooler and basket of goodies awaited them. "Man, you went all out," she said jubilantly. "I can't believe you went through so much effort for me." She became teary-eyed. "Thanks, Brand!"

"You're most certainly welcome," he said with a smile. He was quite pleased by her reaction. Brandon opened up the cooler and pulled out a bottle of champagne. "Dom Pérignon," he added before popping the cork.

"Yummy," replied the golden-haired young woman as she looked inside the cooler. "Four bottles? Are you trying to get me drunk?" she queried mischievously.

"Can't you tell?" he asked with a laugh. "Maybe we'll pass out and wake after the wed-."

"I don't want to even think about that, okay," she interrupted solemnly.

"Alright," he replied, pouring the bubbly into the antique crystal goblets he swiped from the cupboard. As Brandon handed her a glass, their hands touched and he felt that spark. The way that she had glanced at him and awkwardly withdrew her hand indicated that she felt it too.

Those poor young people found themselves in one hell of a predicament. They met for the first time over 15 months ago in East Hampton, Long Island (New York.) They had been neighbors for a few years although they never knew it. Their attraction was immediate and before long, they were inseparable. She was only fifteen at the time, and her modeling career had just kicked into overdrive after she had signed on with the Ford Modeling Agency in the city.

Their summer romance came crashing to a halt when their parents hooked up (their respective spouses had passed away years before.) Despite their protests, their parent's relationship continued and then they became engaged and now the wedding was only two days away. Their loving parents made sure that they kept the kids apart, fearing that they might secretly continue their relationship. Brandon was more than willing to, but Gwen didn't want her life to "resemble a V.C. Andrews novel."

After all these months, he watched her slowly descend into a world full of booze, drugs and sex. He was disgusted by the fact that she was dating a thirty-eight year old photographer who fostered that bad behavior. He worried that one day he'd get that phone call telling him that she was found dead in some ritzy hotel somewhere. Brandon wished he could whisk her away to some faraway land where she could sober up and be happy once again.

When they finished eating, she reached into her purse and pulled out a baggie of white powder. "Please don't," he pleaded. "Not today. For me."

She looked at him for a minute before replying. "Well, can I at least burn one, then?" she queried. He relented. Brandon didn't have a problem with smoking pot; he partook in the stuff himself, but coke was a different story. They smoked, talked, and drank. By nightfall, they were pretty blitzed.

They lay on the blanket, staring at the sparkling lights on the domed ceiling while listening to _Baba O'Riley _by The Who. Brandon then turned to her and asked, "Why don't we elope and fuck things up for the old farts?"

Gweneth turned and faced him. "Hmm, that's tempting," she answered with a laugh. "That would definitely fuck with them big time."

"I say we do it," proposed the young man as he placed his hand on stomach, caressing it softly.

"Don't," she said softly, pushing his hand gently away. Whenever he touched her like that, it made her yearn for more, and under the circumstances, that couldn't happen. Life was complicated enough and sex would only make matters much worse, for both of them.

"C'mon Gwen," begged Brandon as he propped himself up on his elbow. "I've never stopped loving you… and I know you still love me. It's not fair that the geezers screwed things up for us. We're the ones that are supposed to be together, not fucking them!"

"Fate says otherwise," she responded distantly.

Brandon had no intentions on giving up that easily. God only knows when he'd see her again. He snuggled closer and continued to stroke her affectionately. Her blue eyes were closed and her foot moved to the rhythm of the music. The young man buried his face in her thick hair; it smelled like apples. She let out a throaty moan as he softly brushed his lips against her neck. Gwen's skin felt so soft beneath his lips. He slid his hand under her top, delighted that she didn't resist.

The young man continued to get aroused as he fondled her breasts. He couldn't endure his torments any longer. Brandon placed his mouth over hers and kissed her hungrily. She reciprocated, wrapping her arms around his strong shoulders. They aggressively began undressing each other, eager to consummate their love once and for all. The alcohol had served its purpose; she surrendered herself to him completely, no longer caring about the consequences of their actions. After all those many months, Brandon had been granted his greatest desire: Gweneth.

When they found their release, they fell asleep in each other's arms, unaware that on the morrow they would find themselves in a whole new world…


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: This chapter is rated "M," due to some graphic sexual imagery.

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Chapter Two: Rude Awakening

Brandon awoke first the following morning, feeling utterly content although slightly hung over. He stretched and yawned as Gwen stirred beside him, her naked form brushing against his in the process. He desired to take her again, but knew that if he disturbed her sleep, she would be furious, and that was something he'd rather not deal with after their first night of passion.

Half of the candles had burned out, casting dim shadows within the cave. The young man used care as he got to his feet and pulled on his pants in order to answer 'natures call.' Suffering from a case of 'yuck mouth' as Gweneth so eloquently referred to it, he warily followed the tunnel that led to the fissure in the stone wall. As he peed, Brandon took in his surroundings, still yawning. It took him several moments before he realized that he should be standing on an outcropping, not the ground itself.

He hurriedly zipped up his fly and wandered about in his bare feet, shocked that the terrain had totally changed.

"What the fuck?" he said aloud. Yesterday, they had climbed up a stone path that wound along the cliff, but today; Brandon was standing on short stubbly grass amid scattered forestland. To the east was a mountain range that had not been there the day before. As he explored the landscape, he saw nothing familiar to him. Absolutely nothing. There were no four wheelers, no paths, no nothing. He convinced himself that he was still under the influence of the booze and pot that he had consumed the night before.

After stepping on a thorn bush, he limped back to the fissure of the cave and sat down. As the young man rubbed his injured foot, his anxiety grew. There was no doubt in his mind that Gwen would freak out when she woke up. He could find no plausible reason for what had happened. Brandon sat there rubbing his temples, his head was throbbing something fierce.

_This has to be a nightmare of some sort_, thought the Englishman. As the sun ascended into the blue sky, he entered the cave. Since they appeared to be in some strange place, he thought it would be best to see what provisions they had left from the night before. Any food left would have to be rationed. God only knows how long they'd find themselves in that situation.

Gwen finally woke at half past eleven in the morning. Brandon sat beside her on the blanket, dreading the thought of telling her what had happened during the night.

"Good morning," he said softly.

"Morning," she answered as she sat up, looking for her clothing. "I can't believe we slept here all night," she continued with a shudder. "It's chilly."

"It's warmer outside," said Brandon as he handed Gwen her neatly folded clothes (he had to do something until she woke.)

After she dressed, she needed to pay a little visit outside. Brandon escorted her through the tunnel and watched as she nonchalantly walked behind a tree to pee. It wasn't until she started walking back that she had abruptly come to a halt.

"Brand?" she queried as she looked around at their surroundings. "Um, where the hell are we?"

He slowly approached her. "That's a good question, darling," the young man answered as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I've been pondering that myself for the past few hours."

Gwen's eyes were fixed on the mountain chain behind Brandon. "How the hell did that get there?" she questioned, pointing at the face of the black rock. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"I'm afraid not," he replied as he tried to put a comforting arm around her. She pushed him away.

"Take me home. NOW!" she demanded. "This isn't funny any more."

He looked at her somberly. "I don't know the way home," uttered Brandon.

When Gwen noticed that he wasn't playing some prank on her, she freaked out. "How the hell can this be? How the hell does the whole landscape change?"

"Maybe we went through some portal or something," suggested the young man lightheartedly.

"That shit doesn't happen in real life, Brand!" shouted the blonde-haired young woman as she pushed her hair behind her ears.

"Well I don't have any other suggestions, Gwen. I- I don't know what to do," he answered, attempting to conceal the panic in his voice.

"We gotta think. We gotta think," she mumbled repeatedly. She began pacing back and forth, rubbing the palms of her hands together nervously. "My cell phone!" declared the golden-haired beauty as she ran back into the dark chamber. Brandon dutifully followed her, but his gut told him that the phone would be of no use to them. He was correct in his assessment. That's when Gwen started bawling. The young man did his best to console her, this time she didn't push him away. She clung to him and continued crying hysterically.

Brandon was frightened as well, but was determined to be strong, for her. They had enough food for maybe three scant meals. All the ice in the cooler had nearly melted and they had enough water to last a few days if they were prudent. They still had half a bottle of champagne, but that would only make them thirstier. That didn't matter to Gwen; she refused to pour it out. Instead, she gulped down every drop, preferring that beverage to water.

Gweneth offered Brandon a Vicodin tablet for his headache. He wasn't a big fan of pharmaceuticals, but he gladly took the proffered pill. His nerves could use some calming after the morning they had. Gradually, they both became somewhat sedated and spoke of their dilemma more rationally then before.

"Do you think we've entered the _Twilight Zone_?" queried Gwen thoughtfully.

Brandon began mimicking the theme from the classic TV show. He laughed.

"You know, I don't think we can wholly rule that out now, can we?" replied Brandon with a chuckle. "I would never have thought anything like this possible. I'd always thought that magics and such were a bunch of rubbish."

"Until now," chimed in Gweneth.

"Until now," he repeated in a serious tone. "There's definitely something trippy going on, that's for sure."

Shortly afterwards, the duo left the cavernous chamber and sat outside the cleft of the rock wall. Gwen didn't want to explore the area, but wanted to stay close to the cave. She thought that if they did travel by some portal or something equally as bizarre, then perhaps that night, it would happen again, and they'd wake up back in England once again. Brandon wasn't of the same opinion; he yearned to travel deeper into the woods to see if they could discover any signs of life. The mere mention of that scared Gwen. She had watched enough TV to know that there could be some creepy crawlers lurking in the woods, and she didn't want to become a meal for some demonic creatures.

They both fell into a fitful sleep later that night. While Brandon experienced some amazing dreams, Gwen was plagued with nightmares that left her with an ominous feeling the following morning. Much to their dismay, they were still in that mysterious place, not England.

"We've got no other choice, Gwen. We have to go. If we stay here, we'll end up starving to death," advised the young man later that morning.

"But we don't know what's out there," she protested.

"We have to go," he repeated again. The resolve in his voice indicated that the matter was not up for debate. Once Brandon made up his mind that was it. He was now in his take charge mode.

They filled the empty wine bottles with the melted ice water from the cooler. It was imperative that they find some type of water source as they had only enough to last two or three days. Brandon sat down and began removing the batteries from the boom box.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked Gwen as she took a drag off her cigarette.

"I'm going to use these as a weapon should the need arise," he answered.

"A weapon?" she questioned with a chuckle. "What the hell are you gonna do? Chuck batteries?" Brandon scowled at her before removing his shoe and pulling off his sock. He slid the eight 'D' batteries into the sock and then swung it around. "So who are you… fuckin' MacGyver?" she queried sarcastically.

"Actually, I remember seeing something similar in _Death Wish_, except it was quarters, I believe," answered Brandon. "One whack to the head with this should incapacitate any villains we come across," he added with a smile.

Aside from the batteries and water-filled bottles, they took the blanket, a few pieces of chicken, bread, and the goblets. Brandon argued with her over taking the glasses, but Gwen refused to leave them behind. She thought that they might be used for bartering for food if they did come across any 'civilized' people. All those items were placed inside the basket, which Brandon carried. Gwen slung her purse over her shoulder. It contained mostly make up, drugs, cigarettes, her wallet, hairbrush, more drugs and chewing gum.

It was early afternoon when they left the cave. Brandon decided that they should head due east, following the black mountains. "Many springs issue from the feet of mountains, so perhaps we'll come across one as we travel."

"Whatever," she replied breathlessly as they continued to hike under the hot rays of the sun.

On the third day of their journey, they did manage to find some wild berries, which they happily ate, ripe or not. Unfortunately, they ran out of water later that evening. By that time, Gweneth had become bitchy as hell. She had broken several of her formerly well-manicured fingernails and she complained about how filthy she was. Both of them were suffering from a bad case of body odor. Brandon didn't fare much better, but it was only a minor annoyance when compared to the big picture of being lost in some mystical world.

The following morning, Gwen awoke amidst the fragrant trees only to find that Brandon was nowhere to be found. She started freaking out, screaming out his name while sobbing uncontrollably. They had been heading in a southwesterly direction, but she was unsure of which way he could have went, or if he had been abducted while she slept. All these horrible thoughts went through her mind. Gwen cursed herself for watching so many horror movies, she half-expected some deranged murderer to jump out at her any minute. She continued to shout Brandon's name, the forest seemed to be stifling her voice, frightening her even more.

Thirty minutes later, she could hear his faint voice calling back to her. She followed the sound until they finally caught sight of one another. A weeping Gweneth ran to him, leaping into his arms. Brandon embraced her trembling body tightly as feelings of guilt washed over him. The young man felt horrible that he had caused her so much anguish.

"Don't ever leave me alone," cried Gweneth. "I didn't know what happened to you."

He stood the blonde-haired girl back on her feet, wiping the tears from her dirt-streaked face.

"I'm sorry, my beautiful Gweneth," apologized the young man as he pushed the stray hairs off her face. "I shan't ever leave you alone again. I promise," he added softly before kissing her softly on the lips.

She looked into his deep gray eyes, attempting to regain her composure. "Do that again and I'll kick your ass," she shot back humorously, her arms still wrapped around his waist.

"Is that so?" he asked with a glint in his eye. Before she could respond, he picked her up in one swift motion and threw her over his shoulder, spanking her bottom playfully. She, in turn, started pinching his butt in an attempt to free herself from his clutches. "OW!" exclaimed the young man, putting Gwen on the ground.

"I didn't pinch you that hard!" she said incredulously.

He sat on the ground and pulled off his left shoe. "It's not that, it's my bloody heal," admitted Brandon before showing Gwen the huge blister that had burst open. Since he didn't have a sock on that foot, his new shoes were rubbing against his heal making it raw.

"Oh, damn," commented the American, her face showed her concern. "Does it hurt?"

Brandon rolled his eyes as he looked up at her. "Of course it hurts… You wouldn't happen to have any bandages in that bag of yours?" he queried.

"No, but I've got something for the pain," she answered before running through the woods to where their stuff was. Brandon called after her. "I'll be back in a minute," she replied as she disappeared amongst the trees.

Ten minutes later, she returned with all of their belongings. She sat down beside him and began rummaging through her purse.

"Listen, Gwen, I really don't want to get loopy first thing in the morning," remarked the young man, figuring that she'd give him one of her 'pain' pills. "We've got a lot of miles to put behind us today… "

"Don't be such a dumb-ass," smirked the young woman. She pulled out the baggie of powder. "Cocaine has anesthetic properties, it'll numb the pain," added Gwen. She wiped her fingers thoroughly on her pants before licking her index finger and sticking it into the powder. She gently applied the drug to his open wound. "That should do that trick," she said after she had finished nursing his injury. The young woman licked her finger clean before helping herself to a bump of the white powder; she needed the extra oomph before starting on their journey.

"It feels better already," said the surprised young man. "Thanks." Brandon never would have imagined that Gwen's illegal drugs would actually have a practical use. Even though the bandana was dirty, she insisted that he wrap it around his wounded foot before putting his shoe back on. The Brit did as she suggested.

They changed directions and traveled due south through the forest.

Many hours later, the lack of water had begun taking its toll on the teenagers. Their pace became slower and often they found themselves stumbling over fallen limbs. The rays of the afternoon sun managed to penetrate the boughs of the pine trees that now surrounded them. The air was hot, dry and still; both young people were drenched with sweat.

It was with great joy when the couple heard the rushing sounds of water, breaking the silence that had encompassed them throughout the day.

"C'mon Gwen," encouraged the young man. He took her hand before quickening their pace. The thought of quenching her parched mouth was enough to make Gwen move faster. Brandon led her down a game trail, knocking spider webs aside as they went.

They soon found themselves standing atop a cliff, looking down upon a clear river. The current was swift and based on the sunlight; it ran in a southeasterly direction. Their only problem was finding a way to get to it. The walls of the cliff were of sheer rock and impossible to descend. The teens continued to follow the course of the river, hoping beyond anything, that they'd find some way to reach its waters.

After walking another mile or so, their luck changed for the better. The teens came upon a spot, just past a bend in the river, where the stone cliff had eroded for some unknown reason, granting them easy access to the riverbank. Carefully, they walked across the broken rocks to a pebbly shoal.

"Thank god," uttered Brandon as both he and Gweneth dropped to their knees by the waterway. They used their cupped hands to transport water from the river to their mouths, savoring every drop that touched their dry mouths. Once they drank to the hearts content, they filled the empty bottles that they had been carrying with them.

"I'd say this is a pretty good place for us to rest a while," said Gweneth as she glanced at the tree that grew out of the side of the embankment, which created a natural shield from the mid-afternoon sun. "What do you think, Brand?" she asked the young man.

"I'm with you on that," he replied as he pulled off his shoes.

"I can't believe we actually get to wash up! How many days has it been since we've last bathed? Five?" she queried as she spread the blanket beneath the boughs of the tree.

"Yeah, I think so," answered Brandon, as he pulled off his t-shirt.

Before long, both teens pulled off their dirty clothes and cautiously walked out into the river. The current was strongest in the center so the couple stayed close to the shoreline. Brandon and Gwen scrubbed themselves clean before doing the same to their clothing. They hung their garments over some tree limbs to dry as they lay on the blanket watching debris floating downstream.

It was amazing how much the water had lifted the duo's spirits; it rejuvenated them. They were still hungry though, and spent way too much time talking about what they'd love to be eating at that moment. In the last twenty-four hours, all they had eaten were a handful of berries each.

Brandon watched as Gwen carefully rolled a joint; his hand softly stroked her naked back. He was so happy to see her finally loosening up. And things only got better after they smoked some weed; teasing words turned to playful touching, which in turn, led to sex.

As they lay there in post coital bliss, Brandon suddenly sat upright, nearly hitting his head on his khaki's that hung from the tree limb above him.

"Déjà vu!" he exclaimed.

"What? Really?" queried a slightly disoriented Gweneth.

"Oh yeah," he replied as he crawled out from underneath the canopy of leaves and got to his feet. Brandon looked down the river for several minutes before he continued. "It's weird as hell but we need to cross the river and continue to head south." He turned to Gwen, who was now sitting upright, brushing her long golden hair. "I have this uncanny notion that I've been here before. Isn't that bizarre?"

"You're stoned, Brand," answered Gwen as she pulled her hair into a scrunchie. "And I'm pretty sure you haven't been here before," she continued as she eyed the scenery, "wherever the hell here is."

"I'm serious, Gwen," declared the young man before dressing. "We're going to have to swim across."

"Fuck you!" protested the American with furrowed eyebrows. "I'm not fucking swimming across that. I'll drown!"

"No you won't," said Brandon reassuringly. "It's only about two hundred feet, that's nothing."

"To you!" cried out Gweneth in an affronted tone. "You're a jock, I'm not! My job's to stay slim and look pretty!"

"I'll show you how easy it is," suggested the young man. "I'll swim over and show you that it can be done, then I'll come back and we'll go together."

"You're fucking nuts!" she exclaimed as she started to dress. "And you're not leaving me! You promised!" whined Gwen.

"Then we'll go together," offered Brandon.

"NO!" shouted the young woman. "If we need to get across, let's keep walking along the river. Maybe we'll come across a bridge or something."

"Look how long it took us to find a cleft in the wall," argued the dark-haired teenager. "We're going to have to cross it by swimming, Gweneth. We need to get a move on before it gets dark."

Before the girl could protest some more, Brandon dove into the water, fully clothed, and began to swim across the river. Gwen stood on the shore hurling curses at the young man as the current took him further down stream. By the time he made it to the other side, he had drifted a good half mile past his starting point. The young man climbed up on a tree that had fallen into the water from the cliff on the opposite side of the watercourse.

"Stupid idiot," mumbled Gwen with a shake of her head. It was then that she heard the sound of boisterous singing coming from upstream. She was so startled by the sudden sound that she began to panic. "BRAND! SOMEONE'S COMING!" she foolishly shouted to her lover.

"HIDE!" came his breathless response. Gwen could tell, even from afar, that Brandon was exhausted from his swim.

Gwen stood there for a moment, frozen with fear. She heard the young man shout again before he dropped back into the water. She went to retrieve their belongings so nobody would know that they had been there. When she crawled under the boughs, she noticed a boat coming around the bend. Three scruffy men were in it and they were singing in a language that she didn't recognize.

"Fuck this," she whispered to herself as she ran up the rocky slope, leaving their stuff behind. Several of the small stones came rolling down causing her to loose her footing. "Oh, fuck, oh fuck," she repeated under her breath as she regained her footing and continued ascending the slope.

The men stopped singing and one of them shouted something, but Gweneth had no idea what he said or if he was even talking to her. She was too scared to look over her shoulder to find out. When she got to the top of the cliff, she ran into the woods about two hundred yards before hiding behind a large oak tree. She kept her back to the tree and attempted to catch her breath.

Tears began streaming down her face when she heard the sound of a man's voice in the woods with her. She bit her bottom lip in an attempt to keep quiet but her breathing seemed amplified to her ears. Everything seemed still, Gwen could hear the crunching sound of the leaves on the forest floor. Her eyes desperately searched for something that could be used as a weapon. The only thing that she saw that would be effective was a heavy limb about twenty-five feet away. She was debating whether to run for it or not when a man jumped out from behind the tree and grabbed her, terrifying the girl even more.

He appeared to be well over six feet tall with broad shoulders. Gwen thought that he looked like a cross between Grizzly Adams and Hagrid with that bushy hair, both on the head and face. He tightened his grip on her arm. The look in his eyes, which lingered on her breasts, indicated that he had to be one of those creepy _Deliverance_ type of characters. The banjo music played in her mind.

"Get your fucking filthy hands off me," she shouted, summoning all of her courage. His response was unintelligible to her ears; she couldn't understand him. Yet his behavior became more aggressive as he used his other hand to pull her against him. Gwen struggled like a wildcat. She raked her chipped fingernails across his face before kneeing him in the groin. She managed to escape, fleeing for the large limb on the ground only feet away. The gap was closing in when all of the sudden the beastly man jumped on top of her back sending her to the ground, face first. The impact knocked the wind out of her, leaving her somewhat stunned.

The brute then rolled her over on her back, his opened mouth reveal yellow and twisted teeth. The man backhanded her; Gwen immediately tasted blood in her mouth. He held her arms down over her head and she could smell the strong scent of alcohol on his breath as he attempted to kiss her. She tried to wrestle with him, but the man was too strong. Things only got worse when one of his friends showed up.

"BRAND!" she screamed, before the other evil man gagged her with a dirty cloth. She was nearly bowled over by their body odor, which was fouler than anything that she had ever smelled before. As the man who gagged her pinned her arms down, the other pulled her sweat pants and panties off. Her muffled screams fell on deaf ears. She closed her eyes, kicking her legs wildly at the other man until she was hit by a blow to the head, knocking her out.

When Gweneth started coming to, she heard loud grunting sounds in her ear. Her head ached as she once again became aware of her surroundings. That same smelly, bushy-haired man was on top of her getting his rocks off. Nausea engulfed the girl. She was now completely naked. When the man ejaculated, he climbed off her and exchanged places with the one that had held her arms down so that he could take a turn. Gwen couldn't believe what was happening to her. The young woman's horror escalated when the third man appeared, his voice sounded as gravely as his companions. She closed her eyes tightly and let out an inaudible cry of pain when she felt the filthy rogue penetrate her. Gwen could feel the other two men's hands groping her body as they held her down. Her worst nightmare had come true.

As the one man continued assaulting her, the other two began rubbing their exposed genitalia against either side of her face. No matter where she turned her head, she encountered an engorged member causing her to gag. She thought that she would pass out from the smell.

Time seemed to come to a standstill as Gweneth lay there with her eyes tightly closed, praying for that ordeal to come to an end. Only moments later, a blood-curdling scream rang out from one of the men. The young woman could hear the sound of the men shouting in their foreign tongue as their bodies began to collapse on top her. With her arms now free, she attempted to push their heavy forms off fearing that she'd suffocate beneath them. Gwen felt a stream of warmth on her nude body and assumed that one of them had just pissed on her. But she was wrong.

"Gwen! Gwen!" shouted Brandon tearfully, pushing the bodies off her.

The young woman opened her eyes only to see her lover standing over her, a scimitar in one hand, and a bloody battery-filled sock in the other. Gwen then noticed that her own body was covered with blood; she pulled the foul rag out of her mouth. Brandon helped her to her feet as she started retching. She managed to walk a few paces, before she collapsed to her knees, vomiting.

From behind, Gwen could hear Brandon cursing the evil men as he slashed them repeatedly with the blade. He did not stop until all three lay dead. All fell silent again except for his labored breathing and blonde girl's sobs. The soaking wet young man then approached his lover.

"I'm sorry, Gwen. I'm so sorry," he cried as he fell to his knees, unsure of how to comfort the distraught young woman. He was hesitant to touch her; many bruises covered her body. When she finished expelling the contents of her stomach, Brandon continued speaking to her in his most soothing voice. His heart broke. He failed to protect her. As tears streamed down both their faces, the young man led his lover back to the river in order to wash the filth from her flesh.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Twist of Fate

After Brandon bathed and dressed a traumatized Gweneth, he helped her into the boat of the evil men. Since they were all dead, he took it upon himself to take anything that may help him and his lover on their journey. He understood that Gwen was in no condition to travel on foot after the attack. The young man maneuvered the canoe to the center of the river where the current was swiftest. They would continue to travel downstream until they found some type of civilization or Brandon's instincts told him to do otherwise.

It was a couple of hours later when Gwen finally spoke.

"We're being punished," she said in a faraway voice. The young woman's right arm hung over the side of the boat, her hand submerged in the water.

Brandon looked up at her, surprised that she was ready to talk. "By whom?" he inquired, eyebrows furrowed.

"God," she answered.

The young man knew that Gwen wasn't religious, but in her fragile state of mind, he didn't want to debunk her words. Instead, he asked, "What for?"

"For having sex," Gwen responded as she turned her gaze from the water to Brandon. He shook his head and gave her an incredulous look, which only pissed her off. "Think about it, Brand. First, we have sex in the cave and then we wake up in this Godforsaken place. Then we had sex today and then… those… mother fuckers attack me. Yeah, I definitely think we're getting a good old fashioned taste of God's wrath."

"That's bullshit," contested the young man. "It's just… a coincidence, is all."

"Maybe if you got dicked instead of me, you'd say otherwise," protested a grimacing Gweneth.

"I'm sorry, Gwen. I'm sorry that I didn't get there quick enough… but it's stupid to think that we're being punished. We didn't do anything wrong," countered the young man.

"We're probably step-siblings by now. That's what makes it wrong," answered Gwen.

"There's no way the old farts went ahead with the wedding with us missing. C'mon Gwen, our folks aren't that heartless," said Brandon with a shake of his head.

"Yeah, sure," she mumbled under her breath. "They don't give a shit about anyone but themselves."

Brandon tried to keep the conversation going, but Gweneth clammed up. They fell silent as the sun set in the west. They continued drifting down the river under the star speckled sky.

On the following day, late in the afternoon, their boat reached the end of the river. Its waters emptied into the sea, its waves rocked the vessel mercilessly. As Gwen bitched and moaned at their latest misfortune, the young man kept his cool and steered the boat south along the coastline. His gut told him that everything would be alright. However, Brandon couldn't help but feel as though he had been there before. Everything seemed so familiar to him.

The young man was grateful for the provisions that had been stowed in the boat. It came in handy and meant that he didn't have to forge for any food. Despite Gwen's initial misgivings, she resorted to consuming the food and drink of the evil men.

A week after they had arrived in that strange world, which was the second day at sea, a violent storm came out of the west. The sky turned black and a driving rain chilled them to the bone. The sea had become so rough that the small boat capsized throwing both of its occupants into the choppy water. Brandon freaked out when he didn't immediately see Gwen surface. As he tread water, calling out her name, the young man caught sight of a flash of pink. He quickly swam in that direction, and was greatly relieved when he saw a blonde head bob out of the water.

"Help me, Brand," she gasped, as a wave crashed over her head.

Brandon managed to grab Gweneth securely around the waist, and with great effort got them both safely to shore. The torrential rains forced them to retreat into the woods in hope that it would be somewhat drier. It was, but they were both drenched and quite cold. All their belongings were lost except for the knife that Brandon had attached to his belt loop.

"My purse! I lost my purse," shouted the young woman once they were out of harm's way.

"Be grateful you're fucking alive!" snapped a flustered Brandon. The young man didn't mean to lose his temper but their current situation dismayed him deeply. Gweneth scowled at him as they hunkered down beneath the boughs of an elm tree contemplating their next move. Flashes of lightning lit up the gloomy afternoon sky as the rumbling sounds of thunder echoed all around them. The rains continued to lash at the couple even though many towering trees surrounded them.

"We can't just sit here all day," said a chattering Gwen, after a long period of silence. "It's gonna get really dark before long so we need to keep moving. Come on," she added. The blonde beauty grabbed both of Brandon's hands and helped pull him to his feet. She kept one hand firmly clasped around his as she started walking south. Impressed with Gwen's take-charge attitude, the young man let her lead the way through the woods. He missed seeing that Gwen, the one that always picked him up whenever he was down in the dumps.

They had only walked maybe thirty minutes when they happened upon a man with two boys. The strangers had bows slung over their shoulders and it appeared as though they were hunting. Both groups looked at each other, slightly stunned by the others appearance. The clothing on the man and boys seemed strange to Gweneth and Brandon. It was unlike anything that they'd ever seen in their world. The strangers could say the same thing about the strangely clad newcomers, especially Gwen, whose clothes clung tightly to her body, not leaving much to the imagination.

Brandon stood in front of Gwen protectively as he attempted to question the strangers. They spoke in a strange tongue that the American girl did not recognize. She could only speak English and knew that the man was speaking something far from her native tongue. Brandon spoke words of greeting in Spanish, French and Italian, but the strangers didn't seem to understand anything that he had said.

The people were not hostile, much to the teen's relief. The boys looked at the newcomers with wonderment in their eyes. Both Brandon and Gwen were taller than the man, who was probably around five foot ten inches. The boys appeared to be no older than eight and ten. All of them had light brown hair and brown eyes.

Brandon and the man communicated mostly by sign language. Pointing and each saying the word or words in their native tongue. The man offered Gwen his cloak, which she happily took. The man called himself Faron and the two boys were named Hallon and Sador. The strangers beckoned the young couple to follow them. Brandon looked at Gwen skeptically. He was concerned about whether she would feel comfortable going off with those people.

"It's okay, Brand," she said. "My gut tells me they're cool." She glanced at the trio and added, "I don't get that weirdo vibe from them." After hearing her response, they tagged along with the strangers, who led them down a trail through the towering trees. It was not long after, that the rain finally stopped and the black clouds began to dissipate.

They walked another half-mile or so before they came to a clearing in the woods. There were fifteen wooden cottages scattered about that area, which reminded Gweneth of _Little House on the Prairie_. A variety of flowers bloomed in vibrant colors in the yards; their enchanting fragrance filled the air. Chickens wandered freely as they pecked at the ground while horses and cows (which Faron called kine), grazed lazily in the corral behind the small cabins. A hog was roasting on a spit over a fire located in the center of meadow. The smell made the newcomers mouths water. It seemed like ages since they had last eaten a hot meal. The only thing that had eaten in the past couple of days was some stuff that tasted like beef jerky. It was horrible.

A small group of men assembled in a group near the fire pit. They looked at the newcomers suspiciously and the tone of their voices indicated that they were not pleased to see the newcomers. In the center was an old man with gray hair clutching a long wooden cane that was nearly as tall as he. He summoned Faron over to the group. The discussion was undoubtedly about Brandon and Gweneth. Many of the men spoke at once, pointing at the teenagers and then to the west.

"They think we're from the race of big men from overseas," whispered Brandon.

Gwen looked at him with a bewildered expression on her face. "How in the world can you possibly understand what they're saying?" she queried softly.

The young man stood there a minute, amazed that he was able to discern parts of their conversation. "I don't know," he replied, shaking his head. "I just know. I comprehend some of the words that they're saying… enough to know that they're not happy that Faron brought us here."

"You don't have to be a rocket scientist to figure that out!" shot back the blonde beauty with a roll of her eyes. "Even _I _can see that they're pissed off." She put her hands on her hips and watched the group of men for a few seconds before adding, "What did you mean by they think we're the big men from overseas?"

Before he could respond, a smiling Faron returned. He gestured for the teens to follow him into one of the small cottages. As they crossed the yard, Gwen gave one last longing glance at the roasting pig. She was so hungry that she would have willingly sold her soul to the devil for some of that pork.

The front door of the house then opened. Inside the threshold stood a short golden-haired woman dressed in a long yellow dress. It looked like she was around six months pregnant judging from the bump of her stomach. She looked upon the strangers kindly before welcoming them into her home.

Gweneth nearly fainted when she heard Brandon greet the woman in her native tongue. The American had heard of people picking up languages when they visited foreign countries, but this seemed ridiculous to her. How could the British eighteen year old understand and speak in a tongue that he had only heard for the first time an hour before? That wigged Gwen out! Maybe there was something to Brandon's déjà vu after all.

The woman, whose name was Melwen, was grieved to see the state of the young couple. Both Brandon and Gwen were soaking wet, stinky and their clothes were filthy. When the lady of the house offered them a hot bath and clean clothes to wear while she washed theirs, they jumped at the chance.

The young man assisted Faron with the preparations. It was the first time in his whole life that he had ever filled a tub with bucketfuls of water before. Brandon was ever the gentleman and offered to let Gwen bathe first. She was grateful at the gesture. Nothing felt better to the American girl then washing the foulness off her body. Ever since she was attacked, she could smell the nastiness of those men on her. No matter how much she and Brandon scrubbed, river water didn't remove their stench.

Once the teens were washed, they were clad in clothing a bit too small for them. By that time, their own clothes were hanging on a line in the yard.

"Tobacco!" Gwen exclaimed when she caught a whiff of smoke. Faron was sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe. Her jaw dropped open when she saw that. She hadn't had a cigarette in five days. She approached the man and pointed at his pipe and then at herself. His smile widened before he handed her the wooden device. The young woman inhaled deeply and choked. "Good stuff," she coughed. She wasn't use to smoking a 'real' pipe. Her next hit was smoother.

Melwen offered them each a chalice of wine. As Gwen kicked back enjoying both her drink and smoke, Brandon conversed with the entire family in their native tongue. He seized the opportunity to ask many questions while revealing as little as possible about Gweneth and himself.

The young man discovered that they were in a place called Middle-earth. The name didn't register with him. And when he heard that elves and dwarves lived in that world, there was no doubt that he and Gweneth had indeed entered the _Twilight Zone_. Most of the stories that Faron had told the Englishman came from the elders of their tribe.

Brandon was most intrigued by the tales regarding the Men of the Sea. Faron had mentioned to the young man that he and his companion resembled those great people, who reportedly have elvish blood running through their veins.

"The elders say that they had come in peace many generations ago, eager to help those that dwelt by the shores of the sea. They taught my forefathers methods of farming the land that made life much easier. They also showed them how to make things of beauty out of stone and wood. Many deemed that they were indeed messengers sent by the Powers in the West for they were fair of face and had much wisdom.

"Over the years a shadow fell upon those men, who now seek only gold, silver and precious stones. They assail the people along the coasts and rob them of their treasures. They've raped our forests with no intent on replanting. Their love for the sea drove them here, the riches of Middle-earth make them stay," explained the man as he rocked back and forth in his chair.

"They're still here?" asked a stunned Brandon.

"They dwell on the other side of the cape," replied Faron, pointing to the south with his pipe. "There's a great harbor there for them to moor their ships… Now let me ask you a question, Brandon, for I deem that you are very much like your name: lordly. Why is it that the maiden's face is bruised so?" The man glanced at Gweneth who sat with her legs folded beneath her in a comfortable chair, puffing away on the pipe. Her eye was purplish-yellow in color and although the swelling of her lips had gone down, the gash was still apparent.

"She was attacked in the woods by some wild men," replied Brandon sadly. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair under Faron's scrutinizing gaze. The young man did not want to talk in detail about the attack other than what he had just mentioned.

"I see," the man replied. He perceived the young man's discomfort and spoke no more about the markings.

Brandon and Gweneth were overjoyed when they were invited to attend the feast commemorating the last harvest of the season. All the women were busily preparing dishes to go along with the hog that was roasting outside over the pit. The young couple's mouth watered in anticipation of a hearty home-cooked meal.

The villagers seemed to be at ease around the newcomers. The only exception was the old man with the walking stick. Even though he spoke courteously to them and even danced with Gweneth when the merry making started, his eyes revealed his distrustful nature towards the young couple. Both Brandon and Gwen could sense it.

Despite the old man, they all had a very good time. Gwen had a little bit too much to drink but she was in high spirits and Brandon was happy for that. While she had every reason to be in a funk, he appreciated the fact that she seemed to be dealing with the whole 'situation' and was moving on. He felt that lady luck was finally smiling down upon them. The celebrating went on way after midnight. Brandon and Gweneth slept on the floor of Faron's little cottage that night. It was the most comfortable place that they had slept in the past week.

The following morning, the newcomers changed into their clean clothes and enjoyed breakfast with the man and his family. Brandon was most anxious to continue their journey south. Faron's words of warning did not deter the young man from following his instincts. This was one time that he was glad that Gweneth didn't understand the language of the land. The possibility of looming danger, especially after everything that she had been through, would have sent her running the other way. The Englishman knew that he had to keep going. Too many bizarre things had happened that indicated that Brandon was meant to be here. And if he was meant to be there, then so was Gwen.

Faron offered to house his guests for a few more days, but the young man refused. He appreciated his host's hospitality and the provisions that they had readied for them, but it was time for him and Gweneth to move on. Brandon was delighted that his beautiful lover agreed. He attributed her good mood to the pipe and pouch of tobacco that Faron had given to her before they departed. Nevertheless, the rejuvenated young couple continued their trek into the wilderness.

It was only a couple of hours later when Gweneth became violently sick. The young man had been anticipating that since they had lost all their stuff when the boat capsized. His darling lover was suffering from withdrawal. It was the first day that she hadn't ingested some type of mind-altering chemical. Brandon had no other choice but to carry her, which hindered their progress considerably. It seemed like every time something good happened, their fortune changed for the worse shortly thereafter. Gwen's ominous words that God was punishing them came to the Englishman's mind. He tried his best not to dwell on that.

Four days later, Gwen seemed to be doing a bit better. Her lip had healed and her blackened eye was nearly back to normal. She could walk on her own for long periods although she felt weak and dizzy, for the most part. Her determination to persevere impressed the young man. The blonde-haired beauty hadn't complained one bit since they left the village.

Yet it was also on that day when fate intervened once again. As they made their way through the forest, they suddenly found themselves surrounded by many men, the Men of the Sea. Armed bows and sharp spears came at them from every direction. Gweneth shut her eyes tightly and clung to the back of Brandon, terrified that they were about to die. The young man stood fearlessly before the armed men.

The tallest man, who stood nearly seven feet tall, came forward uttering something in a foreign tongue to his cohorts. When he looked upon Brandon, the blood drained from his face and his jaw dropped.

"It cannot be," said the flabbergasted captain in his native language. "My lord, Eärtur, is it really you?" he asked Brandon.

The young man looked deeply into the leader's eyes before his lips curled into a smile. "We have returned," answered Brandon in the same tongue that the men spoke. All the men lowered their weapons and bowed before the newcomers, shocking Gwen.

"Welcome home, my lord," said the men in unison.

"What's going on?" questioned Gwen. "What are they saying?" Brandon smiled as the memories of his past flooded his mind. He and his lover were not lost, they had merely returned home.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: The Dúnedain

Brandon insisted that he and Gweneth continue their quest to return home with the tall men from the West. He assured her that if any had the ability to help them, it was the Dúnedain. The young man didn't say much more than that; he resumed talking with the tallest man as they continued through the forest with Gwen trudging behind. The blonde-haired beauty felt isolated from the others. Occasionally, her lover would smile at her reassuringly or give a gentle squeeze of her hand, before turning his attention back to the strangers.

When they came out of the woods, they looked upon a desolate wasteland. All the trees had been cut down, dozens of acres worth, leaving only stumps, broken limbs and stripped pieces of bark. The sight saddened the young woman and brought to mind the words of Faron:

"_They've raped our forests with no intent on replanting. Their love for the sea drove them here; the riches of Middle-earth make them stay." _

It was at that precise moment, that Gweneth sensed something ominous about the land. A dark shadow lay upon that place; she could feel it. It had nothing to do with the ruinous nature of the landscape, she felt in the air and in the earth beneath her feet. A malevolent presence seemed to encompass all that crossed into its domain. It caused her to shudder despite the temperate weather.

After they crossed the cut over land, the group reached a large bay. They walked along a natural rock wharf that jetted out into the water where three ships were moored. Brandon grabbed Gweneth's hand and carefully helped her onto the vessel. She took a seat at the prow where she started puffing away on her pipe as the men rowed the boat over the still waters.

Only a few minutes later, Brandon, with a bottle of wine in hand, sat next to the young woman.

"I'm sorry if you felt neglected these past few hours," he said as he offered her the bottle. She took a long drink. "I was trying to get as much information from the Dúnedain… " Gwen abruptly stopped him.

"What the hell's a Dúnedain?" she queried, a look of confusion on her face.

"These men call themselves the Dúnedain, which translates to 'The Edain of the West' in Sindarin."

"What the hell's an Edain?" she asked in the puzzled tone.

"It means 'the Second Ones' in the same language, Sindarin," he answered with a knowing smile. Gwen shook her head before taking another swig from the bottle while Brandon continued. "What would you say if I told you that I've been here before… that we've _both_ been here before?"

"I'd say you're fucking nuts! I remember every place I've ever been, except when I was a baby, and I assure you, I've never been here before in my entire life!" she sneered. "For god's sake Brandon, look at them," continued Gwen as she motioned towards the men with her chin. "Look how they dress. I know the retro look is making a comeback but that's ridiculous!"

"Gwen," the young man started in a serious tone. "We've somehow moved back and forth through time."

"You've been holding out on me," she said in an affronted tone. "Did you find some of my pills or is the wine drugged with something?" Gwen sniffed the lip of the bottle.

"The wine's not drugged," he retorted as he snatched the bottle from her hand and took a drink. "You don't believe me, do you?" asked Brandon in a morose voice.

She studied his face for a few moments. "You're serious?" she queried with an air of disbelief. "We haven't moved through time. That's crazy talk! The kind that'll get you committed to an insane asylum, by the way… "

"What do you think happened?" he asked. "How did we go to sleep in one place and wake up in a totally different one? How is it that I can speak and understand a language that doesn't exist in our world?"

As Gwen refilled her pipe, she pondered Brandon's questions. "I honestly can't say how we woke up in a different place, but we didn't travel in time. That shit doesn't happen in real life. It's called science fiction! And I don't need to remind you that fiction is fake." She glanced at the rowing men. "We've somehow stumbled upon one of those reenactment thingies. You know, where people dress up in period clothing and live like people did a long time ago. Maybe they're filming something for PBS. I think I once saw something similar on TV before." Her eyes then brightened and she excitedly added. "Ooh, maybe we're on some show like _Candid Camera_ or something. That'd be kinda cool."

"I can't believe you don't believe me," he said disappointedly.

"How can I?" she asked before puffing on her pipe. She turned her gaze towards the tall man. He seemed to be watching her closely. He turned his head when they made eye contact. As Gwen puffed on her pipe, that same man said something to Brandon. She could tell that he was speaking about her. Her lover responded to the man's comments in the same tongue. "What did he say? He said something about me, didn't he?" she asked when the men fell quiet.

Brandon looked keenly at the young woman. "He said that you will believe soon enough."

"That remains to be seen," she chuckled in reply.

The sun was already sinking beyond the horizon when they neared the port on the eastern bank of the bay. From their position, it looked as though the land had closed in around them. Lights flickered on in the numerous dwellings that stood proudly atop the stone cliff wall. Gwen watched as men walked along the piers with torches, lighting the oil lamps that were located every few feet along the platform.

They disembarked the vessel and followed the 'leader' to the wide stone stairway that was cut into the side of the cliff. Two huge silver vats of burning flame sat atop marble pedestals located on either side of the steps, both at its base and apex. They must have been at least fifty feet tall; the shimmering flames illuminated the entire staircase. As they ascended the steps, the teens noticed that each pedestal was carved in the likeness of a man holding a burning container above his head. It was actually a thing of great beauty.

At the top of the stairway, there was a huge pillared courtyard with many lamps, statues and benches. Numerous flowers in a variety of colors and scents were centered on small tables scattered throughout that space. A magnificent multi-level hall wrapped around the square and appeared to be made from the same black rock on which it stood. The structure had an eerie Gothic feel to it.

A dark-haired man, who appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties, speedily descended the stairs of the hall. He was accompanied by six black men. Tears flowed from his eyes as he spoke loudly in that strange language that Gweneth assumed was Sindarin. Brandon answered before warmly embracing the man. The young woman nearly freaked when they kissed each other on the forehead. The stranger then attempted to hug Gwen, but she stepped behind Brandon.

"What the fuck? That dude's tripping! Don't let him near me!" she ordered Brandon.

"It's okay, Gwen, I promise," answered Brandon, who was wiping away his own tears.

"What the fuck's going on? You know him?" she asked shockingly. Gwen continued to keep her lover between the weirdo and herself.

"Of course. He's our son, Herumor," replied the Englishman.

Upon hearing that, Gweneth started slowly backing away from Brandon, too. More and more people were descending the steps from the building. She shook her head as the blood drained from her face. "This isn't real," she said.

"Gwen!" started Brandon. He slowly walked towards her with that guy, Herumor.

She held her hand up. "Stop right there! Don't come any closer!" She continued to walk backwards, shaking her head. "You're all fucked in the head. They must have bewitched you or something, Brand. How can you think that we have a kid? I've never had a kid and neither have you! This is crazy. You've lost it. You're mental. You should be locked up somewhere. You… " Several men then suddenly shouted as they lunged at her; terrifying the young woman even more. But it was too late. Gwen never finished that last sentence. Her foot teetered on the top step and a second later, she tumbled backwards down the stairway that led to the docks. The back of her head hit the stone steps so hard that it knocked her out before she was scooped up by one of those Dúnedain.

When Gweneth opened her eyes, she found the faces of Brandon and that Herumor guy hovering over her. The pounding at the base of her skull was nearly intolerable and her entire body ached, literally, from head to toe. She moaned as she repositioned herself on the couch where she had been placed.

Suddenly, Herumor handed her a chalice, and for the first time, she clearly understood his words when he said, "Drink this, mother, it'll dull the pain." She didn't respond, but took the proffered 'medicine' and swiftly downed it. As soon as her lips left the cup, she could feel the effects. Both her mind and body had become numb as a feeling of euphoria engulfed her. The young woman was savoring the opiates that she must have been given. She supposed that strange place wasn't so bad after all. "Has it dulled the pain?" he asked. His gray eyes were filled with both concern and worry.

"Yeah, thanks," responded a blissful Gweneth. As she started to take in her surroundings, Brandon plopped down beside her on the couch while Herumor took a seat to her left. All the other occupants seemed to shrink back into dark recesses of that massive room.

The chamber was decorated completely in red, gold and black. Gwen thought that that was a bold choice of colors, yet they seemed to mesh well. However, it was the portrait that hung above the mantle that caused her to jump to her feet and take special notice. She approached the painting, nearly tripping over a table in the process, for a closer look. The young woman blinked her eyes, then rubbed them, thinking that she was witnessing some type of hallucination from the pain medication.

"That's us," said Brandon, who now stood beside her. "I remember when that was done. That was the year Fuinur was born." He glanced at Herumor. "You were five at the time." He returned his gaze to Gweneth. "Fuinur was cantankerous that morning. Do you remember, Irimë?"

Gwen didn't hear him. She was too busy staring at the painting of her holding a blonde-haired baby in her arms; an older Brandon stood to her left while a young dark-haired boy stood to her right. If it hadn't been for her current sedated condition, she would have run from the room screaming at the top of her lungs. Instead, she stood there, totally dumbfounded.

"Irimë? Gwen? Gwen?" called Brandon as he gently shook her out of her reverie.

"Huh?" She turned her glassy eyes on him. "What?"

"Are you alright?" he queried.

"Oh, yeah," she drawled. The young woman returned her gaze to the portrait. "How can this be? She looks just like me, and he looks like you in a few years."

At the moment, Brandon was grateful that she was blitzed out of her mind. It meant that he wouldn't have to deal with any drama for the remainder of the night.

"Hey, Gwen," he then said in a cheerful voice. "How about a nice, hot bath before dinner?"

"Okay," she mumbled faintly.

"Just hang on one minute," he said before he and Herumor left the chamber. Gwen continued to stare at the painting in a trance-like state until they returned to her side accompanied by four women.

The next thing Gwen knew, she was being led from the room surrounded by these women whose speech she could not understand. She was feeling too mellow to question that bizarre situation but she did wonder how come she could only communicate with Herumor and not the women.

They climbed three flights of stairs before they reached the bathing chamber. The young woman was amazed when they entered that spacious room. Since she had only seen oil lamps and candles as a means of light, she was quite taken aback when she saw that there was indoor plumbing in that home. Faron's cottage didn't have any and his 'bathroom' was the outhouse located outside. These Dúnedain appeared to be more civilized than she would have imagined.

While the women tended to Gweneth, Brandon held a council with the men of his household. He decided that it would be best to conceal the past from his lover. She wasn't ready to face it. Not yet.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: The Dark Lord Sauron

Over the course of several weeks, the teens adapted to their new surroundings, but to different degrees. Gweneth's isolation continued to grow despite the numerous women that were always in her company. The ladies worked diligently at teaching her the language of the land that they called Umbar. The statuesque blonde devoted a minimum of six hours a day to learning how to speak and write in Sindarin. Brandon, who mastered the language with ease, insisted that it was of the utmost importance that she learn the tongue of Middle-earth.

Brandon, on the other hand, spent nearly every day at the harbor working zealously at repairing or modifying the ships anchored there. It seemed that he had a real knack for anything related to boats or sailing; a skill that he had never developed in the 'real' world. The only time that Gwen saw him was at meal times and after nightfall.

One of the things that the young woman hated the most about that place was how secretive its inhabitants were. There were many instances when she entered a room and the boisterous talking would cease immediately or she'd see women whispering behind their hands to one another when she walked by. No matter how many times she confronted or threatened those people, they would never tell her what they were gossiping about. It was driving her crazy.

Unfortunately, Brandon didn't help the situation any. He wrote off her concerns as paranoia, but she didn't see it that way. Those sea-faring people held him in high esteem and she knew that they'd do anything for him. Strange at it may sound, Gweneth could no longer deny that they had been there before or at the very least, their doppelgangers. She had seen too much evidence that supported the young man's earlier suspicions.

There was no doubt that there were some weird things going on in that place too. For one thing, the people talked about these 'Gods' that they referred to as the Valar. Gwen never heard that word before - Valar. She had thought that they were talking about valor, but they were quick to point out that that wasn't the case. The people of Umbar worshipped the Vala named Melkor. Apparently, he had delivered them from the thralldom of the other Valar. That seemed really bizarre to her. Nevertheless, they had a 'secret' shrine to that God and worshipped him on a daily basis.

Now, Brandon and Gweneth were never religious people by any means. They didn't go to church or read the Bible, nothing of that sort. It seemed pretty strange to her that her lover seemed enamored by that Vala, who happened to the only God that didn't reside in the land of his kindred, Valinor. Legend has it that the other Gods cast him into The Void centuries ago due to their jealousy of him. The Void. That was something that the young woman had never heard of, ever. From the description, Gwen surmised that it had to be in galaxy far, far away.

One thing that did peak her interest was Melkor's right hand man, the Dark Lord Sauron. Supposedly, that guy dwelt nearby in the land called Mordor. As a matter of fact, it was Sauron that swayed the Dúnedain to follow his God years ago when they first returned to the shores of Middle-earth. They say that he has god-like powers himself and will grant mighty gifts to those that follow him. Since Gwen yearned to return home, she thought that they should pay a visit to Sauron. Perhaps he'd be able to show her and Brandon the way home.

It was during a cool night in mid-October (based on the teens calculations) when Gwen brought up the subject about visiting Mordor with Brandon. She waited until dinner since they always ate that meal alone; it had become a custom of theirs.

"You know, I've been thinking," she began. Gwen spoke slowly, picking at the food on her plate. "I know how much you love it here, but I'm ready to go home." Brandon's fork stopped mid-way to his mouth. He fixed his gaze on her. "We don't belong here, Brand. This isn't our world. Let's go to Mordor and see if Sauron can help us get back home."

The young man looked at her for a moment before he shoveled the food into his mouth. She watched him as he leisurely chewed his victuals. "He can't help us. We're already home. This is where we're supposed to be."

"This isn't _my_ home. I want to go back to my life before all this shit happened. I hate it here," she whined.

"Go back to what?" he asked, throwing his fork on his plate with a loud clang. He looked at her angrily. "Drug induced stupors? Fucking around with that pedophile, Mitchell?"

She rose from her seat. "How dare you talk to me like that!" she spat back venomously. "Unlike you, I had a life before now. It sucks here! I hate it and the people."

"Our sons live here… "

"I don't give a fuck who lives here. I don't want to be here any more. I wanna go home. I want the life I had before," she argued.

"So typical," he retorted, a look of disgust on his face. "Everything has to revolve around you, doesn't it? God forbid someone else's happiness coming before yours… "

"Fuck you!"

She started to walk off. Before she knew it, Brandon got up and stopped her. He grabbed her firmly by the shoulders. His eyes were ablaze with fury. "Let me tell you something, it'll be a cold day in Hell before I leave Middle-earth. Everything that I want is here… I'm a fucking King amongst these people; I'll never achieve that back in England or anywhere else for that matter. This is our home."

Gwen pushed his hands away. "Fine. You stay, but I'm going." She left in a huff.

Brandon shook his head before taking his seat again. "Stupid, bitch," he mumbled under his breath. Her incessant whining was driving him mad. _Maybe her visiting Mordor will be a good thing_, he thought to himself. _Sauron can deal with this situation, as he deems fit._

After finishing his meal, he retreated to their bedchamber only to discover that Gwen had locked him out. Cursing to himself, he went to find another place to crash for the night.

The following morning, a still determined Gweneth planned on departing Umbar for Mordor. Brandon wasn't about to hinder her from leaving, but he demanded that she take an escort. He chose six trustworthy men to accompany her on the long trek; the chief of them was Mahtamo, a tall man with shoulder length black hair and bright grey eyes. After breakfast, the small group set out on horseback.

It did not take long for Gwen to learn that riding on horseback was not her favorite mode of transportation. She had assumed that since Mordor was "close by" that they'd be able to reach Barad-Dûr (the home of Sauron) in a few days. That was definitely not the case. The small party had to travel east some one hundred sixty miles before they reached the ford that allowed them to cross the River Harnen safely. From there, they had to travel north to the ford at the River Poros, which was another one hundred fifty miles.

To make matters even worse, Gwen started her period shortly after crossing the River Harnen. When it came to 'feminine protection,' the women of Umbar used the same method as the women from bygone days in the 'real' world had done. They made a 'pad' from a bunch of linen that was secured in place by a weird looking belt. The young woman had used that contraption for the first time the previous month, but riding a horse while on the 'rag' increased her discomfort considerably.

At Mahtamo's suggestion, the group halted for a few days until Gwen recovered from her affliction. Her constant whining and complaining had become unbearable to her companions and they believed that keeping her off her horse was the best solution. Four days later, they resumed their journey north. They rode along the western fences of Ephel Dúath until they reached Ered Lithui, the mountain chain that ran east and west, forming the northern border of Mordor. In that hilly region, where the two mountain chains met, there was a road that led into the dark lands of Sauron. Due to their slow pace, it took the travelers nearly a month to reach the mighty tower, Barad-Dûr.

Gwen had had second thoughts about meeting the Dark Lord after she first entered Mordor. Despite Mahtamo's warning, she wasn't prepared when she first caught sight of the demonic creatures known as yrch in Sindarin. They were short and squat with long arms, squinty eyes, and long fangs. They somewhat reminded her of the apes (minus the hair) from the movie _Planet of the Apes_ since they were able to communicate and follow instructions. The group then came across real, honest-to-goodness Trolls and huge wolves that the Dúnedain called wargs. Never in a million years would she have ever expected to see beasts' like that in real life. She had always assumed that demons were either monsters of myth or fictional characters created by some writer with a vivid imagination. What frightened her even more was that some of those hideous creatures acknowledged her by name, the name Irimë that is. That alone sent shivers up and down her spine.

By the time the travelers climbed the black stone steps of Barad-Dûr, the young woman was trembling all over. Unlike Umbar, the land of Mordor lacked a wholesomeness about it. It was an evil place, Gwen could sense that long before they entered the pass between the mountains. But now she was frightened at the prospect of making such a bold request from the lord of that land. With every step, her trepidation grew.

Once they reached the double doors to Sauron's grand hall, Gwen's companions were ushered elsewhere to await her return. The Dark Lord wished to speak with her in private. The loss of her entourage scared her even more. Only a moment later, one of the iron doors swung open. An orch guard motioned for her to enter; the door then closed silently behind her.

The young blonde woman found herself in a large round room constructed entirely from the same black stone as the halls in Umbar. Positioned every few feet along the wall was a tall window, its panes were coated in a grimy film that allowed very little light into the chamber. No portraits adorned the walls, only a variety of weapons. A dais was located at the far end of the room. There sat Sauron, in all his glory, atop a magnificent throne of stone. Gwen was taken aback when her eyes fell upon the Dark Lord; she stopped dead in her tracks. After all that she had seen, she never imagined that Sauron would be… gorgeous! He was the most beautiful thing that she had seen since entering Mordor. He was tall, of slender build, with longish dark hair that framed his handsome face. The black clothing that he wore made his fair skin stand out more so. However, his eyes were his most striking feature. They were dark and penetrating; it was almost as if he could read her every thought by a mere glance. She found his gaze both frightening and mesmerizing at the same time.

Sauron's lips then curled into a small smile.

"Come forth, Irimë Laitarína," he said in a surprisingly melodious voice. Gweneth crossed the room, brushing her long blonde hair with her fingers as she went. She felt embarrassed by her disheveled appearance, especially in the presence of a demigod. The young woman stopped when she reached the bottom of the dais. The Dark Lord studied her very carefully before he rose from his seat and descended the steps. "You have been gone far too long to my liking, Irimë," he continued in the same tone. "I see that you had no problem finding the Fountain. Your youth has been eternally restored." Gwen tried to speak, but no words came out of her mouth. She had no idea what he was talking about. The Dark Lord tenderly placed a calloused hand on her cheek. The young woman smiled sheepishly in return.

Only a second later, a flicker of fury shone in Sauron's eyes, he tightened his grip on her face. He then spoke in a low, menacing voice, "I told you not to take Eärtur with you on your journey; you were to travel alone. Who are you to defy my will?" His scornful gaze and threatening tone scared the wits out of her. "I'm lord of this world! You willfully betrayed my command and will be punished accordingly."

"I-I don't know w-what your talking about," she sputtered, with tear-filled eyes.

Sauron's eyes searched the young woman's; his frown became more pronounced after a few minutes. Gwen now wished that she had never set foot in Mordor. The intensity of the Dark Lord's gaze made her feel naked and helpless. Some unseen force stymied any attempt she made at breaking eye contact.

"What happened to you, child?" he asked in a mere whisper. His facial expression softened as did his hold on her. "What have they done to you? Who is the one behind this trickery?" His eyes continued to probe her mind.

Tears spilled down Gweneth's cheeks. "I don't know," she blubbered. "I don't know what's going on. I don't know what you're talking about." She fell to her knees in supplication. "Please don't hurt me. All I wanted was to return home. That's all. I swear." She started bawling.

"Rise, my child," said Sauron soothingly. His words had an immediate calming effect on her. The Dark Lord helped the young woman to her feet. "It is my fault," he continued as he wiped the tears from her face with calloused fingers. "I should've foreseen Ulmo tampering with the waters in that mystical spring. I reckon that he's behind this deviltry. _I will not let that servant of Manwë thwart my plans!_" Sauron's temper had begun to flair again; he quickly composed himself before adding, "Ulmo may have erased your memories, but that fool doesn't realize that I have the ability to restore them."

"W-what do you mean? I don't understand," she sniveled, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her tunic.

"There are those that desire to usurp my lordship over these lands," answered the Dark Lord. "My wicked brethren appear to be conspiring against me, yet again. Your many years of service have been invaluable to me, Irimë. I hold you blameless for your long absence yet you are still guilty of defying my will. I had told you long ago that Eärtur's fate is not your own. Only you were to receive the gift of everlasting youth and beauty." Sauron paused before hissing, "We shall deal with your impudence later." He then took her by the arm and they left the chamber.

"Where are we going?" she asked nervously.

"We are going to one of my private chambers. The time has come for me to enlighten you about your past," replied Sauron as they climbed the spiral stairway. "My lord chose you as an instrument of evil long ago, my child. Since the days of your youth in Númenor, he has whispered and tempted you to follow his designs. You, Irimë, are the Mortári of all the peoples of Middle-earth, and rightfully so. You are a lover of darkness and of pain. You have the power to strike fear into the hearts of man."

That revelation stunned the young woman. How could she be evil? She had no recollection of anything that the Dark Lord had said. How could she strike fear into the hearts of anybody? Gweneth was shocked further by hearing herself mumble, "I'm no warrior."

"No, you are not," he replied as they entered another chamber. "You are a great sorceress. That is by far greater than possessing the skillfulness of the art of warfare."

"Sorceress?" questioned the statuesque blonde with a chuckle. "I don't know anything about magic." She felt like Harry Potter, although in reality, it seemed like she was more akin to Voldemort or the Death Eaters.

"Indeed," answered Sauron. "You shall soon see what you're capable of, my child." He led her to a stately chair covered in plush red fabric. "Sit!" Gwen obeyed his simple order. The Dark Lord proceeded to wheel an elaborate mirror in front of her. The dark wooden frame resembled an open wolf's mouth; a large oval mirror fit within the confines of its jaws. "This looking glass has magical properties. It allows one to see the past, present and future."

The young woman stared blankly into the mirror; she only saw her own reflection. "I don't see anything, but me," observed Gweneth.

"Concentrate, and soon all will be made clear," he answered before disappearing from view.

Gwen focused all her energies on the mirror. She gasped when her reflection faded from the mirror in a swirling of colors. Slowly but surely it was replaced by a blurry image. The young woman looked on in amazement; her jaw dropped when the vision became clearer…


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: Into the Looking Glass, Into the Past

Gwen saw a girl in the Mirror that looked exactly like her at the age of fourteen. Yet it could not be. The surroundings, clothing and speech that she heard were unfamiliar to her. As she tried to digest that information, she felt herself being pulled into the Mirror and inside the girl, Irimë Laitarína. She was literally trapped within the girl's body, but had no control over anything that the Dúnadan said, did, or felt. It was frightening and fascinating at the same time. Once inside the girl's body, she understood everything about Irimë and the world that she lived in. If that was what magic could do, Gweneth definitely wanted to explore it further. This was how it all played out:

Irimë awoke to the sound of her father's loud voice. Curious to know what had upset him, she crawled out of her canopied bed before leaving her room. She went down the hallway, stopping outside her parent's bedroom door, which had been left ajar. Irimë stealthily entered the room and hid herself behind a couch in the sitting room; her folks were having a heated discussion in their bedchamber. She peeked around the corner of the couch, listening intently.

"… He's no son of mine," barked the voice of Almon, her father. He was puffing on a pipe, pacing back and forth. Part of his grey hair was tied back, but his agitated movements caused a few strands to find their way onto his ruggedly handsome face. The man still retained the good looks of his youth despite the fact that old age seemed to be creeping up on him. Apparently, he frowned a lot as he had deep creases permanently etched on his forehead. His eyes sparkled with a wisdom that had been granted only to the Dúnedain even though they were narrowed, showing his obvious contempt. His nostrils flared as he continued to speak. "He's greedy by nature… "

"And where did he inherit that trait, I ask you?" queried her mother, Anvanyë, in a firm yet gentle voice. She sat upright on the edge of the winged back chair watching her husband's tirade. The woman's hands remained folded on her lap; her long golden hair fell in gentle waves, framing her heart shaped face. Anvanyë's intense blue eyes followed her husband's movements; they revealed a kindhearted soul. She appeared to be much younger than her spouse, and possessed a rare beauty not found very often amongst the Edain.

"What are you implying?" questioned Almon, his grey eyes fixed on his bride. "I've worked hard to see to it that this family is well taken care of, and now _I'm_ the greedy one!"

"Almon," she started in the same gentle tone. "You have the biggest shipping company in Númenor. I see nothing wrong with Eärtur starting his own business. Isn't that what all those years of preparation were for?"

"To take over my enterprise, yes, not compete against me!" he replied in a flustered voice. "The last thing I need is more competition. I cannot believe that he has been withholding treasures from me. All those goods that he had acquired in Middle-earth were to be delivered unto me. I paid for the ships. I paid the mariners wages. All that cost has come from my purse, not his."

"He's is much like his father, I deem," answered Anvanyë as she rose from her seat. She smiled lovingly at her husband before placing her hand tenderly on his cheek. Her touch had a calming effect on the man. She pushed the strands of grey hair from his face. "He is stubborn and proud as are all the descendants of the line of Elros. Rejoice in your son's accomplishments, Almon, for they are a reflection of you."

He sighed heavily before kissing his wife softly on the lips. "You're right… _as always_, I might add," he said with a smile. Almon paused before adding, "All I can say is good riddance! I'm glad that he's gone."

Irimë's heart sank when she heard that. _Eärtur has gone_, she thought to herself. She glanced at the clock on the wall; it was only half past three. He wasn't supposed to leave the haven until five. The girl quietly left the sitting room and ran down the staircase, taking three steps at a time. She was nearly out of breath by the time that she reached the evergreen tree in the garden. She snapped off a branch before hurrying on to the harbor.

By the time that she reached the docks, Eärtur's ship had already left port. In the distance, she could see the convoy of ships on the other side of the harbor; his ship, Corma-ëarollë, was among them. Irimë was heartbroken that she didn't get there in time to place the Bough of Return on the prow of his boat. She stood there, attempting to catch her breath, holding the stitch in her side, when Aldamír approached.

"What troubles you so, Irimë?" asked the concerned young man.

"Eärtur's ship has left port before I could present him with a bough from the oiolairë tree."

"Ah, I see," he answered with a nod of his head. He glanced across the waters. "Well, I'm sure that the blessed Lady of the Seas will see to it that his journey is a safe one." He turned his gaze back the beautiful young woman. "Perhaps if you toss the bough into the waters, Uinen will doubly bless his journey," he suggested with a shrug of his shoulders. "It couldn't hurt."

Aldamír's words brought a small smile to her face. "Alright," she answered. Together, they asked the Lady to bless Eärtur's voyage before tossing the branch into the waters. It would be over twenty years before Irimë set eyes on her half brother again.

In the meantime, life went on in Andúnië. The young woman's world had dimmed considerably with the departure of her favorite Captain from the shores of Númenor. She had always been close to him despite their age difference; Eärtur was one hundred and fifty years older, but more importantly, he encouraged her to be the free spirit that she was. Being a woman of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur meant that one had to strictly follow protocol as dictated by the Council. Since the debacle with Aldarion and Erendis long ago, it was frowned upon to wed any outside that bloodline. Fathers became more involved in choosing a suitable candidate for marriage when it came to their daughters and Almon was no exception.

After a few years, Irimë's beauty blossomed as she neared the spring of her womanhood. The Eldar that sometimes visited the western shores of Númenor (where her half brother Tuon Oiotarino dwelt) often compared her loveliness to the foremother of the Dúnedain, the elleth, Idril Celebrindal. It was at that time when many suitors started calling upon Laitarína. Almon only permitted those with families that had considerable wealth to court his only daughter. It was for that reason, some years later, that Aldamir and Irimë became betrothed.

In Víressë (April) 1885, the fleet of ships belonging to Eärtur returned to Númenor. Long he and his men toiled in Middle-earth seeking riches. The Dúnadan had indeed accumulated a vast fortune while on his expedition to Endor. He had become a great leader amongst his mariners and proved himself a capable warrior to boot. They spent many years plundering the coastlands, taking goods from both Men and Elves. They assailed the Elves that attempted to flee to the Undying Lands and collected rare and beautiful relics of great worth. In spite of Eärtur's newly acquired wealth, he remained forlorn; something was missing from his life. That something was none other than Irimë.

As soon as the Captain disembarked Corma-ëarollë, he went straight to the house of his father, eager to see his half sister. Eärtur found his welcome to be cold; little love did Alcon have for his youngest son. His dismay increased when he discovered that Irimë was not only at home, but also betrothed.

Before departing his father's house, he turned to his stepmother, and said, "Please, Lady, let your daughter know that I've returned home safely and that I'm most anxious to speak with her." He leered at his father before adding, "I've brought her many precious gifts from Middle-earth."

When Irimë came home later that evening, her mother told her of Eärtur's return. Immediately, she ran to the stables, saddled her horse and took off towards Eärtur's house, which was a couple of miles away. She always knew that he would come back despite the words of her older half brothers. They told her that he probably found a wife in Middle-earth and decided to remain there, but she knew better.

After securing her horse in his stable, she hurried up the walkway leading to the door. She didn't bother knocking, but went straight into the house.

"Eärtur! Eärtur!" she called out breathlessly as she started searching room to room.

A few moments later, he came down the staircase, towel drying his damp hair. "Irimë?" She rounded the corner and met him at the bottom of the stairway. A huge grin came to her face and she leapt into his outstretched arms. "Oh, Irimë, how I've missed you!" he said as the towel fell from his hands. Eärtur wrapped his arms tightly around her. She was the only thing that he missed about Númenor. The only reason he returned.

"Our brothers said that you'd never come back, that you found the love of a woman in Middle-earth."

"What do they know?" He let out a hearty laugh as he placed her back on the floor. "Let me take a look at you," he began, still holding her hands in his. "You are even more beautiful than when I left." As his fingers caressed hers, he noticed the betrothal ring on her forefinger. "What's this?" he asked, cocking his eyebrow.

"Oh." The smile faded from her face, she pulled her hands from his grasp. "I'm betrothed."

"You don't seem very happy about it."

"Do you have any tobacco?" she asked in an attempt to change the subject. The last thing she wanted to talk about was her betrothal.

He studied her for a moment before replying, "Of course." He picked the wet towel off the floor before leading her into the walnut paneled drawing room. "Have a seat." Irimë curled up on the couch as her half brother handed her a wooden box filled with tobacco and a pipe.

"Atarinya's really wroth at you for starting your own company," she said as she packed the wooden bowl.

"I no longer care what he thinks or feels," he answered with a snicker as he sat down with a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Why should I labor endlessly while he reaps the benefits?" He popped the cork. "I'm a grown man and it's time for me to venture out on my own," he added as he poured the red wine into their glasses.

"I wish I could do that!" she said dejectedly before drawing on her pipe. "So, tell me of your journey. Surely, after twenty years, you have much to tell."

Eärtur then started telling her about his trip leaving out pertinent details until the last.

"I've met the Maia, Sauron," he finally revealed.

Irimë's eyes widened and her jaw dropped when she heard that. "What? The Dark Lord?"

"He's not at all like that," defended the dark-haired man. "I think that our forefathers may have distorted the truth about him. Sauron only seeks to organize… "

"Are you mad?" interjected the young woman. She couldn't believe what he was saying. "He was Morgoth's first lieutenant! Do you not recall that his surname is the 'Deceiver?' For the love of the Valar, he's the embodiment of wickedness!"

Eärtur shook his head as Irimë drained the contents of her glass. "I don't see him that way at all." He leaned in closer and whispered, "Sauron says that he has the ability to grant the gift of immortality to our kind. _Immortality, Irimë! _Is that not what our people yearn for? Is that not what _we_ yearn for? Elros made a bad choice, and now we suffer the consequences of that choice. Sauron can… correct it, but only if we align with him."

"What do you mean 'we'?" she queried warily.

"He mentioned you by name, Irimë. He says that both you and I are worthy of receiving the gift of immortality. Our blood is significant to the survival of our noble race." His words shocked the golden-haired beauty. Moreover, the fact that Sauron mentioned her by name terrified her all the more. "Sauron told me to send you his greetings," he continued with a small smile. "Furthermore, he has asked me to deliver unto you many gifts to show his good will."

"Gifts for me?" she questioned with raised eyebrows.

"Come with me, and I'll show you." Irimë refilled her glass before Eärtur led her upstairs to his bedchamber. She sat on the edge of the bed as he dug through a crate in the corner of the room. "I know it's in here somewhere," he continued as she nursed her drink. "Ah, here it is." Eärtur handed her a wooden box before opening another crate, in search of something else.

Irimë placed the box on her lap. "Is this made from holly?" she asked, as she examined the object closely. He nodded. With her finger, she then traced the engraving on the lid of the box - an eight-rayed star. "Is this not the Star of Fëanor?" she asked.

Eärtur looked up at her with a smile. "You know your history well. For that box was wrought by Celebrimbor, a descendent of Fëanor, in the days when he was lord of Eregion."

It then occurred to the young woman that she was holding one of the spoils from the War of the Elves and Sauron that took place over a century ago. She opened the box, and a sweet melody filled the room; it was a song of Valinor. Inside, it contained many beautiful pieces of jewelry. She was dumbfounded. The box alone was an antiquity worthy of being housed in the treasuries of the King. And it was hers, the box and its contents. She couldn't believe that the Dark Lord would bestow items of such great value upon her. It was unfathomable.

As she examined her newly acquired treasure, Eärtur sat beside her on the bed. "I was also asked to give you this," he said as he handed her some type of black cloth.

"What is it?"

"It's a gown."

That made Irimë chuckle. "The Dark Lord made a gown for me?" she questioned skeptically.

"I'm sure it was made by one of his servants, but he asked me to give it to you… Why don't you try it on?" He took the box from her and laid it on the bed. He then placed the garment on her lap. "You can change in there," suggested her half brother as he pointed to his bathing chamber.

She hesitated for a moment. Eärtur smiled at her reassuringly. The young woman then went into the adjoining chamber and changed into the long, black, silky gown. It was quite revealing to say the least. She had never seen anything of the like before. The gown fit snugly, revealing all her curves, and the low plunging neckline emphasized her well-shaped breasts. On each side was a slit that went all the way to the hip, showing her long legs as she moved or twirled. She found it rather provocative. She was amazed that the seamstress possessed the ability to make a dress that fit her perfectly without knowing her measurements. Regardless, Irimë was captivated by her reflection in the mirror. She had never seen herself as a sensual being before.

The young woman was startled when she heard Eärtur gasp when he entered the room. "You're so beautiful, Irimë," he said wantonly. She flushed in return. He walked behind her as she continued to look in the mirror, admiring herself. "I've never seen a fairer maiden in all my life." He moved closer, Irimë could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck. Eärtur slid his arms around her waist; she pulled away.

"What are you doing?" she asked in an affronted tone. His eyes sparkled with a lasciviousness that caused her to fold her arms over her chest.

"Irimë, don't you see," he began as he took a step closer, "that we're meant to be together… "

"You're my brother!" she exclaimed, a look of utter disgust on her face.

"Half brother," corrected the dark-haired man as he placed his hands on her naked shoulders. She moved away. "Why do you recoil from me? Do you not love me?"

"As a brother," she answered. The look in his eyes made her feel uneasy. "It is against the laws of the Valar to even _think_ such thoughts!"

He furrowed his brow. "The Valar?" he questioned in a derisive tone. "Who are they to make the laws when they themselves break them? Is Vána not the wife of Oromë? Is she not his mother's sister?" He inched closer. "Is that not a direct violation of the laws that they lay upon us?" He shook his head and didn't allow her time to answer. "No, my dear Irimë. Laws were made to be broken. The Valar are preserving their bloodline, as we need to ours. The time will come when Númenor will fall, Sauron has said so himself, and it shall be our noble and pure bloodline that endures after its downfall."

Irimë couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Y-you're under the D-dark Lord's thrall!" she stammered, her eyes welled with tears. For the first time ever, she was afraid of her half brother. She no longer wanted to be alone with him. "I want to go home. I don't want to be here any longer."

Eärtur grabbed her by the shoulders, she whimpered. "I know you love me, Irimë. That's the only reason why I've returned to this miserable isle. I'd rather be in Endor where I can rule my own kingdom, yet my heart rests with you. If you do not come to see to that… _soon_, then I shall return thither, never to set foot on this land again." He then turned and left the room, leaving the young woman frightened and confused. She remained motionless until she heard the front door of the house slam shut. Eärtur had gone.

Irimë sat on the edge of the tub and wept. _Eärtur has been corrupted by the Dark Lord_, she thought. _There is no doubting that. How could he possibly think that I would love him as a husband? That is queer. No, it's evil! _She stood up and wiped the tears from her eyes. _And for the love of Eru, I'm already betrothed and set to wed Aldamír in less then a month._

The young woman quickly changed into the clothing that she had wore earlier. She then fled the house, leaving the gifts behind.


	7. Chapter 7

Author's Note: Due to some graphic sexual imagery, the rating for this chapter is "M."

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Chapter Seven: Shadows Amidst the Darkness

As Irimë raced into the house, she heard her father's voice calling from the front parlor. "Damn it," she mumbled under her breath. The last thing that she wanted was to be interrogated by Almon. She took a few deep breaths before replying, "Coming, father."

She entered the chamber to find Almon sitting beside the fire; an opened book lay on his lap, a pipe in his hand. Anvanyë sat opposite him, busily knitting what would soon become a sweater. As her mother glanced up at her, she immediately put aside her knitting and scrutinized her daughter.

"What's wrong, Laitarína?" she queried, her voice full of concern. "Are you ill?" She rose from her seat and placed her hand on Irimë's clammy forehead.

"I'm tired is all," she answered with downcast eyes.

"So where are these mighty gifts that Eärtur spoke of?" asked her father in a bitter tone.

"Huh?"

"Eärtur had said that he brought you mighty gifts from Endor. Where are they?" he queried again.

"Oh," she replied as she lifted her gaze to meet his. "I left them at his house."

"And what did he bring you, my daughter?"

"For the love of the Valar, Almon, let the girl go to bed. Can you not see that she is in need of rest? And it is late." Her mother stroked her hair affectionately before planting a kiss on her sticky forehead. "We can talk about this in the morning. Off to bed, Irimë, off to bed." The young woman looked gratefully at her mother. She kissed both her parents goodnight then quickly retreated to her rooms.

Once she reached her inner sanctum, the golden-haired beauty let out a sigh of relief. She locked the door before retrieving a flask hidden inside her chest of drawers. She plopped down in the overstuffed chair by the wall of windows that overlooked the sea. The many stars of Varda Elbereth glittered in the pitch-black sky. Irimë shuddered as the warm liquor went down her throat. She hoped that the contents of the flask would help her forget the horrors of the night. No matter how hard she tried, the words of Eärtur echoed in her mind. It wasn't until she emptied the flask that his voice ceased. She could now go to bed and forget the events that had transpired earlier that evening.

Irimë had no idea what time it was when she found herself roused from her slumber. A cold chill had permeated her bedchamber. She found herself unable to move, paralyzed with fear. Something was not right; she was no longer alone. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a shadow lurking at the foot of her bed. The young woman attempted to scream, yet no sound came out. She closed her eyes tightly, praying to the Lord of Arda in hope that he would purge that ominous figure from her bedchamber.

"Do not be afraid, my child," said a mellifluous voice in her ear. The coldness in the room lifted as the voice spoke, but the chill remained in her heart. "I have come. The King of Arda has answered your prayers. I only hope that you will heed my counsel in these most troubling of times." Despite the warning in her heart, Irimë opened her eyes. She watched in amazement as the shadow manifested itself into the shape of a handsome man with dark hair and eyes. A soft light emanated from his bodily form, which seemed to fill the room with warmth.

Irimë quickly discovered that she could now move. She sat upright in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her eyes carefully studied the man. She then plucked up the courage to ask, "What has happened to Eärtur, my Lord?" The young woman had assumed that Manwë Súlimo sat on the edge of her bed.

The man chuckled softly before replying, "Eärtur has simply seen the light, my dear Irimë. I have taken it upon myself to deliver my own message to you."

"You have a message for me, Lord Manwë."

"Manwë?" queried the man, his face contorted in anger. "I am not that fool, child. He is beneath me in both power and wits." It then occurred to Irimë that Morgoth was the one in her bedchamber. How in the name of the Valar did he manage to escape the Void and enter the hallowed lands of Númenor? Even worse, her bedchamber? As though he perceived her thoughts he continued, "Do you think that my wicked brethren can keep me from what it rightfully mine? Nay. I have thwarted their designs once again."

The young woman cast a sideway's glance towards the door. The evil Vala's presence frightened her. Should she scream? Could her father and the others of their household repel the creature of darkness from their home? Again, it seemed that Morgoth had read her mind. His laughter filled the room, causing the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end.

"Call to Almon, I care not!" he answered with a wide grin. "Surely, you do not think that your weak mortal father can oust me from Eä when the Valar themselves proved unsuccessful in their attempt." He leaned closer. "I have come only to enlighten you to the truth, Laitarína. Your father is no noble man." He rose from her bed, she could actually feel his weight lifting from the mattress, leaving a depression in her bedclothes. The Vala walked to the window, his hands clutched behind his back. "Did you know that you beloved father sold you to the highest bidder?" he asked nonchalantly.

"What?" she asked in shocked disbelief.

"I did not stutter," he answered. He remained perfectly still as he continued to look out the window.

"My father would never… " She stopped speaking mid-sentence as the words of Eärtur flashed in her mind:

"_Father is greedy. He only seeks to raise his position in Númenor, to have the entire shipping industry under his sole command. He will go to any lengths to achieve his objectives."_

"Is it not a Númenorean custom for the bride's family to give a dowry to the groom's family?" asked the Vala. "Did you know that Aldamír's father will sign over his company to Almon on your wedding day?" Morgoth turned and faced the stunned young woman. "Your lover will find himself at the mercy of your father. And that, I daresay, is not the most pleasant of positions to be in. Over time, his love for you will turn to bitterness, for he paid the ultimate price for you - the loss of his inheritance. He will seek the companionship and affections of other women, flaunting his total disregard for you, my dear Irimë." The Vala shook his head disappointedly. "He does not love you. He desires only the thrill of the chase, child. Has Aldamír not attempted to have his way with you since your betrothal? Is that not in direct violation of the laws of Númenor? Is that the man you wish to spend the rest of your brief life with?"

"I… I… " Her words floundered. Images flashed before her, visions of the future, her future. All the things that Morgoth had mentioned, she saw unravel before her very own eyes. When the visions faded, she turned to the Dark Lord. "But loving Eärtur is a direct violation of the laws of Númenor and the Valar?"

Morgoth approached her bed; he sat beside her once again. "Laws were made to be broken, Irimë. I do not doubt that you're well aware that Oromë and Vána have broken the sacred rules of matrimony. Exceptions must be made when it comes to preserving the bloodline. Nobler children come forth when both the mother and father share a common parent. Their children are… _endowed_ with great and rare abilities."

"He's my brother… " she protested.

"Half-brother," corrected the Vala. "He loves you more than life itself, and you love him too. You only need to look in your heart, Irimë." He placed his ghostly hand upon her bosom. His touch instantly warmed the chill in her heart. It felt wonderful. "Look deep inside and you'll find the answers to all your questions." She closed her eyes as more visions came to her, images that would scandalize their family's untarnished reputation.

The moment and visions were lost as a cock crowed in the distance; it was nearly dawn. Morgoth removed his spectral hand and looked towards the window. "It is time for me to go." He looked back at Irimë. "Do not fear the darkness, embrace it!"

Before she realized what she was saying, she asked in a hopeful voice, "Will I see you again?"

Morgoth smile warmly. He cupped her face with a black ghostly hand. "Indeed. I'm always with you whether you see me or not. Sleep, Irimë, sleep." The young woman closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.

"I knew that she was ill," said the voice of her mother. "And why was the door locked?" Irimë was gradually coming out of her blissful dream state. She felt a cold compress on her forehead, which caused her to wake with a start.

"What… what's going on?" she asked dreamily.

"You are burning with fever, my daughter," answered Anvanyë.

Laitarína opened her eyes to find her mother and nurse bent over her.

"What time is it?" she asked with a yawn.

"It's half past ten."

"I'm tired, mother. Please, leave me be. I wish to sleep longer."

Irimë refused breakfast, but took the tonic that was proffered to her. It was the only way to get the women out of her room. As soon as they left, she went back to bed and fell asleep. She slept the entire day away, not waking until two o'clock the following morning.

The young woman pulled on her robe and made her way to the kitchen - she was starving. She dug into the leftovers from supper until her belly was full. As she sat at the table finishing her juice, she pondered the words of Morgoth. Did her father really 'sell' her to Aldamír's father? Was her life with her betrothed doomed from the start? Would her lover boast about other conquests after their wedding? Her stomach twisted into knots. Irimë had to get to the bottom of things. She had to find out the truth.

Quietly, she crept into her father's study, closing the door behind her. She wanted proof, proof that her father had violated the traditions of their proud and noble race. She began searching Almon's desk, looking through his journals and important papers. Her search proved futile, Irimë found no evidence confirming what Morgoth had said. She leaned back in the black, leather winged back chair as her eyes searched the room. The flickering flame from the lone candle that she had lit cast eerie shadows on the paneled walls.

Her jaw dropped when a tome on the topmost bookshelf moved of its own accord and fell to the carpeted floor with a thud. She watched in amazement as the book opened, the rustling sound of the pages turning broke the silence within the chamber. The golden-haired maiden smiled to herself knowing that the Dark Lord was present in the room although she could not see him. When the pages stopped turning, she rose from her chair and retrieved the book. She spent the next three quarters of an hour reading the journal. Her heart sank to her stomach; it was true, her father had sold her to the highest bidder. It made her feel as though she was just another commodity that her father had brokered.

"You now see that I speak the truth, dear Irimë," said the phantom image of Morgoth after materializing on the other side of the desk. "If you desire to escape from the bonds that your father has placed on you, you must seek Eärtur. He is your only salvation. With him, you will become great… and immortal. That, my child, is a gift that I bestow only upon those few that are most faithful to me." The Dark Lord drifted around the desk, stopping beside the young woman. He knelt down and whispered, "Unless you desire to remain shackled to this isle, where loneliness will consume you until you wither away. Does the fair Irimë Laitarína long to be nothing more than a trophy on the arm of a man who will grow to resent you? Or do you yearn to be a Queen of lands far wider than any you've ever imagined? Your future lies in Endor, dear Irimë. You and Eärtur belong together. It is fated to be. Do not reject my counsel, embrace it!"

Irimë closed the book; she was both hurt and angry by what she had read.

"I love my father," she said softly before turning towards Morgoth with tear-filled eyes. "Does he not love me?"

"I'm sure that he loves you in his own way, child, but I deem that Almon loves gold and silver more than his only daughter," answered a sympathetic Morgoth. "None love you more than Eärtur… Forsake your father, Irimë, and I will appoint a more worthy candidate to take his place. Together, we will guide you to greatness… You shall become the Mortári of all Endor, a queen worthy of praise, a woman that is both loved and feared by all the races in Eä." The Dark Lord looked imploringly at her. "You must take the first step, Laitarína. Go to Eärtur! Love him as he loves you, and all your dreams will come true."

The more that Morgoth talked, the angrier Irimë became. He spoke endlessly about how her future lay in Middle-earth and how Almon was stifling her true potential. She began to wonder if it was all true. She spent what was left of the night listening to the wisdom of the Dark Lord until the house stirred to life at sunrise. The young woman then returned to her bedchamber and fell into a fitful sleep.

It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon when Irimë finally awoke. After completing her morning ritual, she placed her hands on the countertop in the bathing chamber and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked different, she felt different. There was an air of confidence about her that she had never had before.

"Today is the first day of the rest of my life," she said aloud, "for the time has come to break out of the fetters that father has placed on me. I am my own woman, a mighty daughter of Tar-Minyatur. Any that contest me will feel my wrath, for I will soon become the Mortári, as my Lord has declared." Her lips curled into a wicked grin. "Let them all tremble before me, I will embrace the darkness for I no longer fear it." The golden-haired beauty then summoned for her maid, she was eager to take a hot bath.

It took Irimë two hours to bathe and dress. As soon as she finished primping, she took off for Eärtur's house. She was delighted that so many men turned their heads, doing a double take, as she walked passed them down the cobblestone streets. Ever since she accepted Morgoth into her heart, she felt empowered. The people of Andúnië were getting their first glimpse of the new and improved Irimë Laitarína. Together with Eärtur, they would become a force to be reckoned with in times to come.

Her half-brother was not at home when she arrived. She immediately dismissed his servants for the night as she made her way upstairs to his bedchamber. When she entered his room, she walked over to the wardrobe and opened the doors. She smiled when she saw the black gown that Sauron had sent her hanging inside the cabinet. She removed the garment from the hanger and laid it on the bed. The young woman then removed all her clothing before slipping on the silky dress. As she admired herself in the mirror, she noticed the holly box sitting on the chest of drawers. Irimë went over to the box and looked through the contents. She adorned her body with many pieces of jewelry including an elaborate ruby and adamant necklace that drew ones eye to her bust. Once again, she looked admiringly at herself in the mirror. Not completely pleased with her reflection, she retrieved a bejeweled hair clip from the box and secured her long, golden hair in a twisted bun on top of her head. The young woman pulled a few strands of hair down to accentuate her fair, flawless face. She looked perfect.

Thrilled with her appearance, Irimë then descended the stairway and entered the drawing room. Feeling that that night would be one of the most important in her life, she decided to indulge in a rare bottle of elvish wine while waiting for Eärtur to return. It was nearly an hour later when she heard boisterous voices coming up the walkway; her half brother was not alone. A slightly tipsy Irimë rose from the couch, walked to opened doors of the room, and waited eagerly for Eärtur to cross the threshold of his home.

The front door swung open, her half brother and his three companions entered the house; they had definitely been drinking. It took a moment or two before they noticed Irimë standing in the doorway of the drawing room.

"Irimë!" exclaimed a drunken Arqueno. The others followed the man's gaze to the provocatively dressed young woman. "Aren't you a vision of loveliness?" The men ogled the golden-haired beauty; she smiled seductively in return.

"That she is," answered her stunned half brother. "I… I think we need to call it a night, my good fellows," continued Eärtur, his eyes never leaving Irimë. "I'll see you tomorrow." The men looked at their captain with envy, they knew of his desire for Laitarína. After casting one last lustful glance at Irimë, the men bid them both good night before leaving the house. Eärtur remained transfixed as the young woman gracefully turned and entered the drawing room, beguiling him further.

"I opened a bottle of elvish wine," she said, pouring them both a glass. "I hope you don't mind." It took a few moments before Eärtur comprehended what she had said. Her sudden metamorphosis left him spellbound. When he came to his senses, he followed her into the adjoining chamber.

"N-no, of course not," he stammered as he took the glass from her hand.

The young woman's smile broadened as she took a seat on the couch. When she crossed her legs, the material of her gown separated at the slit, exposing much skin. Her alluring and suggestive nature caused the captain's loins to ache with desire. Eärtur was seeing another side of Irimë that he had never witnessed, a side that he waited many long years to see.

"I hope you don't mind that I dismissed your servants for the evening," she continued, tracing the rim of the glass with her finger. "Under the circumstances, I thought it appropriate that they not be here tonight."

Eärtur stood there for a few moments before answering, "I would have done the same." He smiled as he sat closely beside his half sister. "I must admit that I'm a bit taken aback by your sudden… " The dark-haired man paused; his eyes slowly looked her over before he added, "transformation." He shifted his position, placing his free hand on her naked thigh. Her skin felt soft and supple to the touch.

"Do you not like it… my transformation, that is?" she asked coyly.

"Of course I do." He took the glass from her hand and placed it, along with his, on the table beside the couch. Eärtur turned his attention back to his beautiful half sister. He looked adoringly at her. "I've dreamt about this moment for a long time," he continued, caressing her cheek. "I knew that my patience would one day pay off." He pulled the young woman into his arms, kissing her tenderly on the lips. She looked at him with rapt attention. "Oh, Irimë, how I've longed for this moment." He slowly slid his hand from her face to her neck. "You've made me the happiest man in all Arda." He pressed his mouth against hers, kissing her hungrily. She returned the kiss, wrapping her arms lovingly around his neck. In one swift motion, Eärtur lifted her off the couch and headed for his bedchamber, his lips never leaving hers.

When they reached his room, Irimë's confidence in the art of seduction began to wane. She had only kissed a man before, nothing more. Since her betrothal, Aldamír attempted to grope her from time to time but she had always put a stop to it before it could escalate into anything further. Now, she found herself in a position where she was ready to surrender herself to Eärtur, but she wasn't quite sure what to do next. Unfortunately, her mother was saving _that _conversation for her wedding day.

Eärtur placed Irimë upright next to the bed. She watched as he undid the strings on his tunic before pulling it off, revealing his broad, muscular chest. He sensed her anxiety, and smiled warmly as he brushed his lips against hers.

"There is nothing to be nervous about, my beloved," he whispered in reassuring voice. He placed her hands on his naked chest, savoring her touch. Slowly, he guided them lower until they reached the bulge in his breeches. He moaned, "Take them off, Irimë," as his lips found hers again. That was easier said than done! Irimë found it most difficult trying to undo the buttons on his trousers while in Eärtur's passionate embrace.

"I can't… " she said, pulling out of the kiss.

"What?" he queried dejectedly.

"I can't… I can't undo the buttons without seeing them," she answered with an air of annoyance to her voice. "It's too difficult." She continued fumbling with the buttons.

Eärtur let out a sigh of relief. For a moment, he had thought that she was about to flee from him. Pleased that that was not the case, he chortled. "We can't have that now, can we? Can you see now or do you need my assistance?" he asked teasingly.

"I _can_ see now!" replied an amused Irimë, glad that her apprehensiveness was lessening. "I'm not witless you know… I've never undressed a man before. That's not a skill that I have mastered… "

"Yet!" interjected Eärtur as the young woman managed to complete her task. Irimë gasped in surprise when his swollen member popped out of the confines of his breeches. She had never seen one of _those _before! "It doesn't bite," he said playfully. "It just longs for your touch."

She giggled before pressing her lips against his. As they resumed their passionate kiss, Eärtur guided her hand back down to his stiff organ. He moaned with pleasure as she stroked his shaft. His fingers traveled up the length of Irimë's arms until they reached the thin straps of her gown. He slid them off her shoulders causing her gown to pool at her feet. His hands eagerly explored her body. How he had longed to touch her, to feel her soft skin beneath his hands.

A throaty moan escaped Irimë's lips when Eärtur's fingers penetrated her nether regions. She found his touch electrifying. He aroused feelings in her that she never knew she had, namely passion and desire. She thought that she would go mad when her lover's lips drifted down to her neck, where he proceeded to suck and nibble at her flesh. She wanted more, but more importantly, she wanted Eärtur.

"I love you, Irimë," he said between kisses, unclasping the hairclip so that her golden hair fell in waves around her shoulders. "I long to be inside you."

"Take me, my love," she groaned in a raspy voice.

Eärtur pulled back the covers before laying his beloved half sister on the bed, resisting the overwhelming urge to pounce on her like some wild animal. There was no way that he could behave that way with her. She was pure, wholesome, and the only women that he ever truly loved. Irimë was his soul mate, blood kin or not. He didn't care, the hell with the laws of Númenor.

Eärtur's mouth found its way back to Irimë's as he positioned himself between her straddled legs. He slowly eased his swollen member into her tight, slick opening. With each thrust, he went a little deeper. Irimë let out a throaty moan, tightening her grip on his shoulders when he finally broke through her barrier. With that obstacle out of the way, Eärtur plunged his shaft into the depths of Irimë. The slight discomfort that the golden-haired beauty felt subsided quickly. Her lover increased his pace, driving his manhood in deeper and harder as they began to move rhythmically together. It wasn't long before a wave a pleasure washed over the young woman causing her to cry out in ecstasy. Eärtur grunted knowing that he was on the verge of reaching his own climax. As Irimë's spasms increased, he could no longer restrain himself, he found his release. Eärtur breathlessly collapsed on top of his beloved.

When he caught his breath, he rolled off his lover. Irimë lay there in a dazed and blissful state; her body tingled all over. She snuggled up against the Captain of Andúnië, whispering, "I love you," in his ear before nibbling on the lobe.

"I love you too," he replied before brushing his lips against her.

"Can we do it again?" she asked eagerly.

Eärtur laughed heartily. "Of course we can, but not right now. I'm famished!"

"The cook left something on the stove, I think its stew."

"Come on then," he started as he climbed out of bed. "Let's have our supper." As Irimë got off the bed, she let out a small cry when she noticed the blood on sheet. Eärtur reassured her that it was completely normal for a woman to bleed her first time. "Hasn't Anvanyë explained these things to you?"

"No," she answered softly. "She's only told me about the monthly curse that we women must endure."

While Eärtur led her into the bathing chamber to clean the blood from their flesh, Morgoth's dark shadow glided out of a darkened corner of the room. He went over to the bed, examining the bloodstain with a smile on his face. "Good, very good," he uttered before vanishing altogether.

After throwing on some clothing, the couple made their way to the kitchen. Irimë warmed up the pot on the stove, as Eärtur sliced the freshly baked bread that he found in the oven.

"When are you going to call off your wedding to Aldamír?"

"I'm not," she answered, stirring the contents of the pot.

"What?!" exclaimed the dark-haired man, the shock in his voice apparent.

Irimë faced her half brother. "It's not that simple, Eärtur. It's complicated." She turned her attention back to the pot. "Besides, father would kill me if I did that."

He grabbed her by the arm and turned her around. His eyes scrutinized the young woman; the air of calmness about her baffled him. He continued in a wounded tone, "Surely, you have no intentions on going through with the wedding. Not after… "

"Shh," she sounded as she placed her index finger on his lips. "There will be no wedding. I promise. I've got something special in store for both Aldamír and Almon."

"And what's that?"

"Revenge, my love, revenge," she replied as her lips curled into a wicked grin. Her response delighted Eärtur. He pulled her into a tight embrace before kissing her passionately.

Neither truly understood the significance of the immoral deed that they had just committed. It was all a part of Morgoth's plan. That one act would have a rippling effect on the whole of Númenor. Irimë had been chosen as the Dark Lord's instrument in corrupting the monarchy of the Dúnedain, and she would play her role to perfection...


	8. Chapter 8

Author's Note: The rating of this chapter is "M," due to some graphic sexual content.

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Chapter Eight: The Last Temptation of Aldamír

"This was a great idea, Irimë," remarked Aldamír, stretching his legs out before him on the quilt. He leaned against the towering elm tree as his beloved removed the food from the basket. "We haven't had much time to ourselves lately."

"I know," answered the smiling golden-haired beauty. "Everything has been hectic with the wedding and all. I swear, if mother doesn't stop nagging me about every little detail, I'll… I'll send Morgoth after her." Her words of jest were lost on the young man.

"Irimë!" exclaimed Aldamír in an affronted tone. "How can you say something like that? Anvanyë only wants to make sure our wedding day is perfect. Surely, you can understand that… you are her only child after all. I beg of you not to mention the Dark Lord's name, even in jest."

"I'm sorry," she answered sulkily. "I'm just tired of her incessant questions… I'll be happy when this wedding's over."

"Only ten more days, my sweet. That's not very long." He smiled at his future bride. "You need only amuse her a little longer."

"I suppose you're right." She offered her lover a wedge of cheese; he playfully nipped it from her hand. "Be careful," she scolded. "You nearly bit my fingers."

"I can't help myself," he replied, chewing his victuals. "I find myself rather… _ravenous_."

"Do you speak of my feast or something else, my lord?" she asked in a mockingly dignified voice.

"You know what I speak of, Laitarína!"

"Then I best get you fed to lessen your hungering," she said with a chuckle.

The couple then partook of the food that Irimë provided: roast from the night before, bread with fresh butter, cheese, fruit, wine and some of her mother's delicious honey cakes. Once they stuffed themselves, they tossed the empty food cloths back into the basket and lay next together under boughs of the elm sipping wine.

"How 'bout a refill, Irimë?" asked the slightly tipsy young man. He held up his empty goblet, shaking it back and forth. "That's some of the best wine that I've had in a long time. Is it elvish?"

"You know Almon," she said, turning her back to her beloved, "Only the best for him and his family." She peeked over her shoulder. "It supposed to be for the wedding but I took a couple of bottles. I hope no one notices."

"I suspect that Anvanyë will notice if she's been carrying on the way you say she has been."

Irimë went back to the task at hand, as her lover continued to prattle on about their upcoming nuptials. She withdrew a small vial of yellowish liquid from the depths of the wicker basket, concealing it in her clenched hand. She glanced over her shoulder once again to ensure that Aldamír had not shifted his position. He still laid flat on his back, staring into the thick greenery above him, his speech beginning to slur. She cleared her throat, covering up the faint popping sound as she removed the cork from the glass tube. She carefully poured the contents into his empty chalice before topping it off with wine. While Irimë swirled the cup in one hand, she used the other to hide the vial beneath the cloths in the bottom of the basket.

"Here you go, my darling," she cooed, handing the drink to her lover. "How bout a toast?" The young woman lifted her half-full cup as Aldamír shifted to a sitting position. "To my beloved, the love of my life. May we have many long years of happiness … "

"Hear, hear!" The young man took a deep drink. "Ah," he sounded, noisily smacking his lips together.

_He's licking his lips too much,_ she thought, nervous that the young man noticed the bitter flavor of the drug. _Can he taste it?_ There was only one way to find out.

Irimë leaned forward exposing her cleavage, knowing that that would distract her lover. "So, Aldamír, in less than a fortnight we shall be husband and wife," she began coquettishly, her fretful fingers fiddled with a button on his shirt. "I eagerly await our wedding night… when I can finally succumb to my desire for you."

His eyes lowered, lingering on her breasts. The young woman smiled flirtatiously; relieved that her scheme hadn't been exposed.

"Indeed!" he exclaimed, placing their cups carefully on the grass. Aldamír then pulled her into his arms, kissing her passionately as they collapsed to the ground. "Oh, Irimë," he moaned, planting wet kisses on her neck. "Don't make me wait any longer. I want you so badly." His mouth found hers again, his tongue sloppily twirled around hers. The young man then rolled on top of her, pressing his swollen member against her upper thigh.

"We can't," she protested breathlessly, pulling out of the kiss.

"Yes, we can," he countered, running his tongue along her lips. He kept grinding his hardness against her womanly form. One of Aldamír's hands found its way to her breast; he kneaded her soft mound through the fabric of her dress. "Please, Irimë, my love. Let me take you here and now," he pleaded softly, brushing his lips against her ear. The young man managed to slide a hand inside her bodice; he fervently began massaging her naked bosom. Despite her malicious intentions, Aldamír's touch caused Irimë to moan with want.

"No!"

"Yes," he whispered, his mouth trailing down her neck.

"I said no!" she protested, turning her head to the side. Irimë tried to push his much larger form off her, but with no success. She wriggled beneath him, her fists beating against his chest. "Stop it, Aldamír!"

The young man grabbed her arms, pinning them above her head. He looked at her with lustful eyes, his face flush with desire. "You are nearly my wife! I refuse to have my affections rebuffed any longer. You want this as much as I do, Irimë, you cannot deny that," he panted. "I will take what is rightfully mine."

The young woman continued squirming beneath him as the young man pulled at her bodice, tearing her gown at the neck. With her bosoms exposed, Aldamír wantonly took one of her breasts in his mouth, pulling on her nipple with his teeth. She winced from both the pain and pleasure that surged through her body. That only encouraged the young man to proceed further. He repositioned himself, now holding both her arms with one hand while the other struggled to hike up her gown. Aldamír tried to kiss her as he hastily undid his breeches. Irimë turned her head from side-to-side, avoiding the mouth of her brutish lover.

After a couple of failed attempts, Aldamír clumsily inserted his swollen shaft into her tight opening. He let out a guttural moan as he drove his manhood deep inside of her. The golden-haired beauty bit her lip, sobbing softly. With a look of triumph on his face, the young man continued to thrust deeper and deeper into his soon-to-be bride. Only a few moments later, his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on top of her.

"Aldamír! Aldamír!" she cried out, losing her breath beneath his dead weight. "Get off me!" The young man remained motionless. "Get off!" she said, finally rolling him off. She quickly bolted upright, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, as her eyes scanned the small clearing.

"I can't believe you let things go that far," said a perturbed Eärtur, stepping out from the wood. A breathless Irimë rolled her eyes in response, as she grabbed her goblet of wine. "Are you sure that one's yours?" asked her half brother as he stood over the 'lovers.' The golden-haired beauty sniffed the contents, unsure whether it was drugged or not. She poured the contents out of both cups before taking a swig directly from the bottle.

"Is he dead?" she asked, noticing that Aldamír wasn't moving.

Eärtur bent down beside the young man, placing his fingers on his neck. "No, he's alive." He scowled at the young woman. "How could you let things go that far? You weren't supposed to have intercourse with him."

"And how exactly was I supposed to stop him, Eärtur? He _is _stronger than me!"

"You hit him in the stones, that's what you do," replied an agitated Eärtur as he knelt beside the unconscious young man. "Come here," he ordered as he pried Aldamir's jaw open. Irimë inched closer to the two men. "Put your breast in his mouth," instructed the Captain.

"Is it going to hurt?" she asked, positioning her bosom in his mouth.

"Of course it will," answered Eärtur, still annoyed by Aldamír's success at penetrating his beloved Irimë. "But only for a minute or two. Surely, you can endure the pain for that long."

The golden-haired beauty turned her head away. "Just get it over with."

"Ready?"

She nodded in reply. "OW!" she whined as Eärtur clamped Aldamír's jaw shut on her delicate flesh. Tears filled her eyes from the pain. Irimë looked down at the unconscious young man; his teeth were wet with blood, her blood. "Damn you, Eärtur, you didn't have to break the skin!"

Her half brother chuckled. "It's not _my_ fault. It looks like Aldamír got carried away by his passions." He unclenched the young man's jaw; blood trickled down the young woman's breast. Before she could wipe it off Eärtur instructed her to smear it on Aldamír's clothing. After she rubbed her bleeding bosom against the young man's shirt, her half brother pushed the insentient man off the quilt.

"Now I get my turn," said a smiling Eärtur as he took the young man's place on the blanket. He unbuttoned his breeches and pushed them to his knees. While Irimë rubbed her sore breast, her half brother pointed at his flaccid shaft. "You know what to do." He placed his folded arms under his head, his eyes remained fixed on the young woman as she moved between his legs. His smile widened when she took him in her mouth.

As soon as he was firm enough to penetrate Irimë, he threw her to the ground and forcefully entered her. "Ow! Damn it, Eärtur, you're hurting me!" the young woman yelped.

"It's supposed to hurt, Irimë. Just be quiet." Eärtur took her as violently as he did the women that he had encountered in Middle-earth. His half sister's body had to show trauma. It had to look like Aldamír raped her otherwise all their efforts would be for naught. He grabbed her wrists, roughly pinning them above her head. "Struggle, Irimë," he sputtered. "Try to break free. You'll bruise easier that way."

The young woman whimpered in her attempts to escape Eärtur's clutches. She could feel the burning sensation as she twisted and turned in his manly grip. Her half brother sucked on her neck and breast, which hurt considerably, leaving bruise-like markings. She didn't realize how excruciatingly painful her plan would be. When Eärtur reached his climax, he tenderly kissed her on the lips, wiping the tears that spilled from her eyes before rolling off her. Irimë lay perfectly still; her body ached and throbbed from her half brothers vicious deed. As she tried to relax, he lifted her legs, wrapping them around his neck, not wanting his seed to spill out from her nether regions. He then pulled up his breeches.

"You alright?" he queried, grabbing the knife out of the basket.

"I suppose."

"Only one thing left, Irimë. And this won't pain you in the slightest, I promise." He slid the blade of the knife deeply across the tips of two of his fingers. Blood immediately oozed from the wounds. He squeezed his fingers, bringing forth as much of the crimson fluid as he could. When it started to run down the sides of his digits, he inserted it into his half sister's vagina. They had to give the illusion that Aldamír had taken her innocence. When he removed his fingers, he wiped the sticky digits carefully on the quilt. "The last is for you, my love," he said as he rose to his feet. He held his out his hands for Irimë. She took them as he helped her to her feet. "It's almost over." Eärtur lovingly stroked her hair, planting many gentle kisses on her lips. "You look like you've been ravaged."

"Isn't that the point?" she said with an air of annoyance to her voice. Her discomfort hadn't lessened yet. "I feel it running out," added the young woman, referring to combination of blood and semen that began to leak from her nether regions.

"As I said, the last is for you, not me." Eärtur cast a contemptuous look at the unconscious form of Aldamír.

Irimë let out a heavy sigh as she walked over to the knocked out young man. She placed her fingers between her legs, collecting as much of Eärtur's essence that she could. She then took the glob of goo and smeared it on Aldamir's limp penis while her half brother watched intently.

"Here," he started as he squatted beside her, "you need more blood." He dripped some of his life force onto the young man's manhood. "Rub it all around. It must look like he took your virginity."

"I am!" she shot back. "Why do I get all the unpleasant tasks?"

"You didn't seem to think it was unpleasant earlier," said Eärtur, arching his brow. "In fact, it looked like you enjoyed it!"

"I was pretending, my darling." Eärtur's jealousy put a smile on her face. "There. I think we're done here."

"Goblets!" mentioned her half brother, after scrutinizing the scene with his sharp eyes. "We need to wash them in the stream."

"Help me move him back on the quilt, first. Then you can wash them while I finish up here," declared Irimë, as she grabbed the young man by the wrists.

"Fine," answered Eärtur, taking Aldamír by the ankles. Together they moved his body back onto the quilt, his blood and semen coated member still exposed. Eärtur then grabbed the silver goblets and disappeared down a path through the trees.

Irimë picked up the bottle of wine and took a long drink. She couldn't believe that they did it. Everything was going exactly as they had planned. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that she and Eärtur could accomplish anything together. The golden-haired beauty was about to exact her revenge on two of the most important men in her life: her betrothed, and her dear, old father. Neither expecting what they had coming to them. Being the one that manipulated events in order for them to come to fruition was both nerve-racking and exhilarating rolled into one.

"Oh, my dear Aldamír, how I take great pleasure in destroying you," she said softly, her malevolent gaze fixed on the unconscious young man. "You'll never get the chance to humiliate me. _Never!_" She then raked her fingernails across his right cheek, wanting it to look as though she had put up a good fight. Aldamír didn't as much as flinch as four bloody streaks appeared on his stubbly flesh. "There! What a work of art!"

Irimë then retrieved the vial out of the basket. When Eärtur returned, she handed him the empty glass tube before pouring some wine into each goblet. Pleased by the ghastly scene that they created, her half brother told her to start the tears a flowing.

"Run home, Irimë. Don't stop until you get there. The more tears, the better." He smiled before rubbing her arms reassuringly. "You're an amazing woman." Tears started streaming down her cheeks. She then took off, running at full speed down the path that led to her home.

By the time she reached her house, she was sweating profusely and out of breath. She threw open the front door, screaming for Anvanyë. "Mother! Mother!" she cried out. Members of the household as well as her three older half brothers came running from all over the house. A look of horror came to their faces when they laid eyes on Irimë's battered appearance. Her mother let out an ear-piercing shriek before pulling her daughter into her arms.

"What happened, Irimë? What in the name of the Valar happened?"

"Al- Aldamír… forced himself upon me, nana. He… he said that I was his, and… and refused… t-to be rejected," sobbed the young woman. "He hurt me, nana. He made me bleed… d-down there."

"Get your father," she ordered her eldest stepson, Tuon.

"Where is Aldamír, Irimë?" asked her older half brother, Sero, between gritted teeth. He clenched his fists in anger.

Dacil, her other half brother, cursed loudly, before punching a hole in the wall. "Let me at him! That scoundrel will pay for violating our little sister!"

"Where is he, Irimë?" asked Sero again.

"We… we were in the clearing by the… the stream. B-beside the big elm," she bawled. "I… I think he p-passed out from too much w-wine." Irimë's enraged half brothers flew out of the house in search of Aldamír. The entire house was in an uproar as Aeriel, Irimë's nurse, ushered the traumatized young woman and her sobbing mother up the staircase.

As Irimë submerged into a hot bath, a distraught Almon arrived home amidst the chaos. Word of the assault spread rather quickly throughout Andúnië, alerting the officials and neighbors, who soon invaded their home. After recounting her story twice, Irimë refused to speak any more. She preferred playing the role of detached victim and withdrew into her shell. That is, until Eärtur arrived a few hours later. They locked themselves in her bedchamber, celebrating the success of phase one of their plan.

Imagine poor Aldamír's surprise when he finally came to. Her brothers, unable to revive the young man, took him to the healers after delivering a few blows of their own. When Aldamír finally came to some time during the night, he was shocked and dismayed by the sudden turn of events. Almon demanded retribution, and was out for blood. Irimë refused to speak to the young man, despite his pleas. Perhaps that was the reason behind his escape. Many of the townspeople pursued the frightened fugitive throughout the night, only to find him dead the following morning. Aldamír had hung himself from the boughs of the elm tree where the assault had taken place…


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: Hail to the King

"I will take this matter all the way to Tar-Ciryatan if need be!" barked Almon one night at supper. "How dare Geldur continue to contest me? He will soon learn what the words 'check mate' truly mean."

Irimë was grateful when her father shoved a forkful of food into his mouth. His constant ranting over the past several months had become nearly unbearable. His only concern was fighting Geldur tooth and nail for the promised dowry, something any reasonable person would deem ridiculous, but not good old Almon. He felt that _he _was entitled to Geldur's shipping company because of his only daughter's defilement at the hands of Aldamír. Yes, Almon's lust for wealth proved to be more important than doting on his 'tainted' daughter, as he referred to her in front of the magistrates.

By Narquelië (October) 1886, their case had already been heard by four out of the five Tribunals in Númenor. None of the magistrates was too eager to make a decision in the most unusual lawsuit, as both parties were prominent Lords of Andúnië. If the final assembly did not reach a verdict, then the case was to go before the King of Númenor himself. By the look of things, that's exactly what the Tribunals wanted.

The entire experience showed Irimë her father's true colors. Morgoth had been right when he had said that her father loved riches more than anything else, including her. Every single time that she had to testify before a cabinet of men, revealing intimate details of her ordeal, her ire towards Almon intensified. To hear him say, in a public forum no less, that she was 'tainted' and 'unfit to find a husband of noble birth' made her want to rip his throat out. Yet she kept her composure, biding her time.

If not for Eärtur, the young woman would have fled her father's halls months ago. However, her half brother needed her to act as his eyes and ears in Almon's house. While she had originally wanted to break her father's heart, his greediness and lack of empathy made her want to destroy him in every aspect of the word. It was the lovers' goal to take the matter before the King, for the Captain of Andúnië had a very good relationship with Ciryatan.

Two days later, they appeared before the final Tribunal. It was no surprise that a verdict was not reached. Although Irimë did find it rather amusing that Geldur brought forth men of 'noble stock' that were willing to wed the young woman despite Almon's claims.

Three weeks later, they received word that they were scheduled to appear before the King of Númenor in Armenelos on Lótessë (May) 15, 1887. That left the lovers only seven months to finalize their plans.

Eärtur and Irimë rang in the New Year by throwing a great celebration at his house. Only their closest friends came, mostly mariners with their wives or lovers, those that knew of the forbidden love of the half siblings and had accepted it. These were the future lords and ladies of Umbar.

"Let us hear from our most gracious host and Captain!" shouted a drunken Arqueno from across the room, his words slurring slightly. "Speech! Speech!" he chanted. All eyes turned to Eärtur as the inebriated crowd joined the sailor in his chant.

"Alright, alright," laughed Eärtur, taking a sip of his spirits. "First of all, I'd like to thank all of you for coming to my halls this evening. There are no finer people in Númenor that I'd like to welcome the New Year with."

"Hear, hear," voiced several men in unison.

"The Dark Lord is smiling down upon us, my friends," the Captain of Andúnië continued, his smile widening. "1887 will be our year, make no mistake of that. Come tuilë, we will break free from the bonds that those in the West have placed on us and seek our fortunes elsewhere." Eärtur's face then contorted to one of rage. "Those fools have rewarded us richly indeed! They have taken away our true inheritance: Endor, the home of our forefathers. Our people had fought and died in the Great War and what did we get in return? Nothing but this wretched isle and a few extra years added to our life span! Curse them! Curse them all!

"We are the only ones that see the truth: that the Valar are liars and thieves! Already, they whittle away at the years promised to us. How long has it been since any lord of Númenor lived as long as Tar Minyatur?" he queried angrily, looking from face to face. "That's right; none have been given such life as the first King. We have suffered enough! Let us extinguish the Light, and relish the Darkness. Let us take back what is rightfully ours! We, the mighty lords and ladies of this land, will conquer all that stand in our way, whether they be Man, Elf, Dwarf, or Ainu. The world is ours for the taking, and take we shall! All hail Melkor the Magnificent, the giver of life…" Eärtur turned his lustful gaze on his half sister, "and the granter of dreams."

"In his name!" said the revelers in chorus.

"Let us raise our glasses," started Irimë, wrapping one arm around Eärtur's waist, the other holding her glass aloft, "in honor of both the New Year and the Dark Lord. May Melkor bless each and every one of you as much as he has blessed Eärtur and me. Happy New Year everyone!" Everybody took a drink.

"Happy New Year, Irimë," whispered the Captain, before nibbling on his lover's earlobe.

"Happy New Year, darling," she cooed in reply. "I have a _very_ special gift for you, my lord."

"Oh, and what might that be?" he asked in a suggestive tone, running his fingers through her golden hair, oblivious to all except his beloved.

"You'll have to wait until the festivities are over."

When the last guest left at three o' clock in the morning, the lovers made their way upstairs. After a passionate lovemaking session, the two lay on the bed, utterly exhausted, their heavy breathing the only sound in the otherwise quiet room.

"That was wonderful, Irimë," said a panting Eärtur, turning his head towards his lover. "I enjoyed your 'gift' very much."

The young woman rolled onto her side, facing her half brother. "That wasn't my gift," she chuckled.

"No?"

"No." She climbed out of bed and walked over to her bag that sat on the dresser. Irimë dug through the contents until she found what she was looking for. "Ah, here it is," she remarked, hiding the 'gift' behind her back as she crawled back into bed.

"What is it?" asked Eärtur, stifling a yawn.

The young woman smiled. "Close your eyes." He did as his beloved instructed. For a moment, he heard a muffled jingling sound. "Alright, you can look now." Eärtur opened his eyes. Dangling on the long silver chain that Irimë held before him were three keys.

"You've nicked Almon's keys!" he said excitedly, shifting to a sitting position.

"No," she answered, placing the keys in his hand. "These are copies. And before you ask, yes, they do work. I opened father's vaults with them myself."

"Brilliant, absolutely brilliant."

With Irimë's last task completed, she looked pleadingly at her lover. "Now, can I move in with you? I cannot endure living in father's house any longer."

Eärtur rolled his eyes, sighing heavily. "Irimë, we've been over this time and time again… "

"But I've done what you had asked of me!" she whined, knowing that he was about to say no again. "Please Eärtur, don't make me go back. I hate sleeping alone. I want to be with you day and night."

The Captain tossed the keys onto the bedside table. He tenderly placed his hand on her cheek. "We cannot stray from our original plan, Irimë," he said softly. "We're _so close _to pulling this whole thing off. I promise; we'll start our life together when we leave Armenelos. Until then, I must insist that you stay at Almon's halls. You're the only one that can keep a close watch on the old man." He took her hand and kissed the top of it. "Believe me, Lótessë will be here before you know it."

"Fine!" she said in a huff, lying down with her back to her half brother. "Blow out the candles, I'm ready for sleep."

"Irimë?" He placed his hand on the young woman's hip, gently caressing her smooth skin. "Please do not go to bed angry at me… Irimë?" She refused to speak any more. "I love you," he said before blowing out the flickering flames of the candles.

In the ensuing weeks, Eärtur showered lavish gifts on Irimë in an attempt to placate her. Fortunately, her outburst on New Year's Day became nothing more than a distant memory and everything returned to normal. The golden-haired woman remained on her best behavior, counting down the days until she and her family planned to depart Andúnië for Rómenna.

The entire household set sail from the harbor nearly two months before the actual hearing was to take place. Almon had decided that they would remain in Armenelos after the celebration of Erukyermë, which was a festival held on Meneltarma every spring in honor of Eru Ilúvatar. The Lord of Andúnië deemed that remaining in Armenelos would allow him the perfect opportunity to convince the King (and his kinsman) to his way of thinking.

As they entered the harbor, Almon carefully navigated the boat across the waters, bypassing the numerous ships already anchored there. Many men stood along the docks, waiting to assist the mariners with the mooring of their vessels. Rómenna was bustling with activity for it was mandatory that the citizens of Númenor attend all ceremonies honoring Ilúvatar (three were celebrated each year). Needless to say, the city of Armenelos tripled in population at those times of year.

Irimë smiled to herself knowing that scores of men from Andúnië would not be attending the annual ritual, as they had things of greater importance to attend to.

As descendants of Tar-Minyatur, Almon and his family were provided with horses and an escort, (courtesy of Tar-Ciryatan), and put up in a fine home near the King's citadel. The only thing that Irimë was looking forward to was the massive shopping spree that her mother promised to take her on. Armenelos, being the chief city on the island, had numerous shops, more so than Andunië, and Anvanyë, like her daughter, had expensive taste. Both were eager to spend Almon's money as if it were going out of style. Unfortunately, they both had to wait until after the holiday feast.

A few days after they had settled in, the King led the procession of people up the steep slopes of Meneltarma (the great mountain of Númenor). All were clad in white and wore garlands of flowers in a myriad of colors around their neck. Those descended from Elros were given a blossom from the Nimloth tree that grew in the courtyard of the King's citadel to denote their noble bloodline. It was custom that none spoke on the slow march to the mountain's summit or on the summit itself (save for the King). The trek was supposed to be a time to reflect and give thanks to the Allfather for the blessings that he had bestowed upon his younger children.

Even from mid-way up the mount, Irimë could see the three eagles of Manwë Súlimo flying high above Meneltarma, as they always did on those occasions. To help pass the time, the young woman envisioned Melkor's flying dragons appearing out of nowhere, attacking the sacred birds of the Lord of Arda. She chuckled at the image in her head, which caused Sero to nudge his elbow into her ribs. Irimë winced as her half brother locked his scornful gaze on her, gesturing her to be quiet. Those within earshot looked at the young woman with contempt, finding her chortle both inappropriate and disrespectful. Rubbing her side, Irimë hastened her pace, putting some distance between her and those with angry expressions on their faces.

Before she knew it, she found herself walking behind the King, his family and members of his Household. She surprised herself by making such headway, considering that the air was becoming thinner. She hadn't made the trek to the summit of Meneltarma since the previous spring, shortly before her wedding was to take place. Irimë had managed to get out of going to the last two festivals (one in summer, the other in fall), due to her emotional distress from Aldamír's 'attack.' She wasn't thrilled to be there now but she had no say so in the matter.

She continued to climb, feeling the burn in the back of her legs. The King's son, Atanamir, who was no more than seven, kept peeking over his shoulder, smiling at the young woman. As she started to fall behind, the boy pulled away from his nurse and quickly ran to Irimë's side, taking her hand. He gave her a reassuring smile as he led her up the slope. While they walked, the young woman could feel the boy staring at her with those keen gray eyes of his. Yet whenever she glanced at him, he would look ahead or at the eagles flying above. There were several times when she shuddered as a direct result of his penetrating gaze. She had no idea why she responded that way, especially since he was only a mere child. It would be some years later when she finally discovered the reason. Atanamir remained by her side throughout the King's speech, even walking with her back down the mountain. For some reason, the boy refused to let Irimë out of his sight, she even sat beside him at the feast later that evening, much to Almon's delight.

"Whom might you be?" asked the King, upon noticing Irimë seated at his table.

"I am Irimë Laitarína, daughter of Almon from Andúnië, direct descendant of the line of Nolondil, my Lord," she said, locking her blue eyes on the King.

"Irimë!" said the King overly loud, drawing the attention of those seated nearby. With raised brows, he scrutinized the golden-haired woman. "My, how you've grown! The last time I saw you, you were but a child. Now, I can see for myself that you have indeed grown into a lovely woman."

Irimë's face reddened, not at the King's words but at the whisperings that suddenly broke out around the table. The young woman quickly shifted her gaze to her plate, absently pushing the food around with her fork. She could feel many eyes upon her, and murmurings of what had happened to her the previous year.

The Queen gave her husband a reproachful look. A mortified expression came to his face when he realized that his boisterous voice had caused Irimë great embarrassment. The King shifted uneasily in his seat.

"Forgive me, Laitarína," continued Ciryatan in a softer tone. "Even the mighty Lords of Elros are known to err in judgment from time to time." He leaned across the table before adding, "I am deeply sorry to hear about the… _ordeal_ that you were forced to endure… "

"My Lord!" snapped the Queen in a low hiss. "Do not speak of such things on this most Holy Day! The situation with Irimë will be addressed soon enough. Do not make the girl more uncomfortable than she already is!"

"Aye," he replied, nodding his head apologetically.

"It's alright," Irimë sighed, looking from the Queen to the King. She was well aware that many sets of eyes were still staring at her. "I must say that I'm not used to being in the company of so many people of late. I've grown weary of the looks of pity I get from complete strangers, some even look upon me with shame."

"No!" exclaimed the Queen in an affronted tone. She leaned across the table, patting Irimë's hand with her own. "You've done nothing wrong, my dear. Heed not those that say otherwise!"

"Was it not you, my dear wife, that said we should speak no more of this matter?" Ciryatan smirked before taking a drink from his bejeweled chalice. He noisily smacked his lip together and belched, as one of his servants refilled his cup. He fixed his eyes back on Irimë. "I was saddened to hear that Eärtur was unfit to make the journey to Armenelos. I was so looking forward to speaking with him," said the King, changing the subject. "Your brother is an honorable man."

"I agree with you wholeheartedly, Lord," answered Irimë with a forced smile. Just the mention of her lover's name increased her longing to see him and her sadness at his absence. "I already miss him terribly and it's only been a week!" The young woman glanced back down at her unfinished meal. "If you don't mind, Lord, I'd like to be excused. The march has left me utterly exhausted and I feel the need to retire for the night."

"Of course, of course," replied the King, getting to his feet. "Would you like an escort to your lodgings?"

"That won't be necessary," she answered, rising from her seat.

"I'll escort her, father," piped in little Atanamir, jumping to his feet.

The King smiled broadly. "That's my son, always the gentleman," he said, bursting with pride. He shifted his gaze to Irimë. "Good night, my dear. Perhaps we'll have you over to supper at a time when my halls are not teeming with people."

"Thank you, Lord, that would be lovely. Good night." She nodded to the Queen before taking the young boy's arm. Together, they left the King's citadel.

As the days turned into weeks, Irimë passed the time with her mother, buying many beautiful things from the shops that lined the cobblestone streets of Armenelos. The young woman enjoyed spending so much quality time with Anvanyë. Her mother would be the only one she would truly miss after leaving Númenor.

When the first of Lótessë arrived, Irimë rode her horse to Rómenna searching for the tall black sails of Eärtur's ships amongst the many vessels anchored there. When she did not find his boats, she decided to ride along the sandy shores of the firth, where numerous people were enjoying the warm, sunny day by swimming and frolicking in the cool waters.

Two days later, she finally saw the fleet of ships owned by her half brother entering the harbor, Corma-ëarollë at the vanguard. She paced back and forth along the pier, impatient to see her lover after their two-month separation. The men on the wharf tried to engage the beautiful woman in conversation but she was uninterested in their words of flattery. She could think of nothing but her much anticipated reunion with Eärtur.

Her heart nearly pounded out of her chest when she beheld the fair face of her lover at the helm of his ship. The Captain of Andúnië smiled and waved to his half sister as his vessel glided beside the platform. Only a few minutes later, Eärtur was off the ship and in Irimë's loving arms. He pulled her off her feet, spinning her round in his excitement while quietly cooing words of greeting.

"You're making me dizzy," laughed Irimë, motioning the Captain to put her down. His fellow mariners, who were leading their horses from the ship, chuckled at the sight.

"As you wish, Laitarína." He set her on her feet, but the young woman's head continued to spin, making her nauseous. "Irimë, are you alright?" She grabbed hold of Eärtur's chest in an attempt to steady herself.

"I'm fine," she answered with a forced smile, the dizziness beginning to subside.

"Do you need to visit the Houses of the Healing?" he queried, his gray eyes full of concern.

"No, I think I might be coming down with a cold, is all. I've felt a little under the weather for the past few days." Irimë looked reassuringly at her lover. "_I'm fine!_" she repeated firmly. She paused before adding, "I'm happy that you've finally made it, Eärtur. I've missed you more than you could ever imagine."

"Know this, my dear Irimë: never again shall we be parted for so long. I was miserable without you."

"Then I deem that we have a lot of catching up to do," she said with a wink.

Some of the mariners of Andúnië accompanied the couple to Armenelos, while most remained behind on the ships. The King provided the Captain with excellent accommodations across from the citadel's courtyard. From his bedroom window, one could see Nimloth blooming amidst the swath of green grass and fragrant flowers. The lovers had only been there for a few minutes when a message arrived from Ciryatan, inviting Eärtur to dine with him privately the following evening.

So far, everything was going according to plan, including the rather urgent summons from the King. Almon would soon learn the words 'check mate' in a literal sense.

The following evening the Captain joined the King at his board in a humongous dining chamber occupied by only three people: Ciryatan (of course), Eärtur, and the King's chief councilor, Arachas. They exchanged pleasantries while the servants were present but once they left, the conversation quickly turned to business.

"What is this nonsense with Almon?" asked the King before shoving a piece of buttered bread into his mouth. "Why does he think he's entitled to Geldur's company when no wedding ever took place? Does Almon, son of Alyon, know of some law that even I,the mightiest Lord in Númenor, do not know of?" He chuckled to himself, amused by his own comment.

"Father seeks only profit and unrightly so if you ask me."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to fatten one's purse, Eärtur. I'm all in favor of that," replied a smiling Ciryatan.

"But at the expense of your only daughter?" queried the Captain, cocking his brow. "Surely, there are limits to how far one should go to obtain wealth. Seeking to profit from the rape of Irimë is criminal."

"That, I agree with," answered Ciryatan with a nod of his head. "I'm astonished that none of the magistrates have ruled on this thus far? Do they fear your father's power that much?"

"I deem they fear his wrath more so."

"Hmm," sounded the King, taking a sip of wine. "And what would you have me do: rule against him, and in favor of Geldur?"

Eärtur looked long at Ciryatan before answering. "No, my Lord. I'd grant Geldur's shipping company to Irimë herself. It is she who should be compensated for the attack." Ciryatan choked on his drink.

"Award the victim Geldur's shipping company?" repeated the councilor wide-eyed. "That's preposterous!"

"Is it?" asked Eärtur, narrowing his gaze at Arachas. "Irimë is the one who suffered at the hands of that brute Aldamír. And it is she who still bears the scars, both physically and emotionally, to this very day."

"What scars? I've heard nothing about any scars?" questioned the King with a bewildered expression on his face.

"My Lord, she was raped! Is that not scarring enough?" replied the dumbfounded Captain with a shake of his head. "Not to mention that one of her breasts has been permanently disfigured by the bite of that fiendish despoiler." Eärtur picked up his chalice of wine before leaning back in his seat. "So, yes, I deem that my sister should be compensated for her injuries."

"Never before have we compensated a woman for any act of violence," remarked the King.

"This is the first such case, my Lord," commented Arachas.

"The first _reported_ case," corrected Eärtur. "I believe there have been other instances, but the women fear reprisals from their attackers. Do not think that this isle is free from evil. There are bad apples here, even amongst the mightiest of the Dúnedain."

Ciryatan sat there for a few minutes, deep in thought, digesting the information. "You would have me give Irimë Geldur's shipping company, you say," started the Lord of Númenor softly. "And why should Geldur be responsible for compensating your sister when his son was guilty of the deed?"

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, my Lord," answered the Captain. "Surely, Aldamir's behavior was learned, and whom do sons learn from but their fathers? Geldur is responsible for rearing an uncouth son, who violently attacked a woman of noble birth. Surely, he should be held accountable for the actions of his seed."

Both the King and his councilor remained silent for several minutes.

"Is this what Irimë desires, to run a shipping company?" queried the skeptical King. Without missing a beat, he cocked his head to the side and added, "Or is it Eärtur's wish to add more ships to his fleet?" with a wide grin on his face.

"It is neither of our hearts desire to keep Geldur's ships or company. We wish to give the business to you, my Lord." He took a sip of wine, watching for the King's reaction over the rim of his cup. To his pleasure, the Lord of Númenor's jaw dropped, his eyes widened in surprise. Ciryatan quickly regained his composure, snapping his mouth shut.

"Why would you and Irimë give the company to me?" asked Ciryatan, attempting to restrain his excitement upon hearing the words of his fellow Dúnadan. Gifts of great value delighted the King more than pleasures of the flesh.

"To fatten your purse," replied Eärtur with a chortle. He knew how to play to the Lord of Númenor's greatest weakness - material possessions. "Is it not your desire to gain new wealth? One does not need to look wholly to the east to achieve wealth when the opportunity to do so is before your very doors."

"Hmm," sounded the King. "That is an interesting proposal, my dear Eärtur, very interesting indeed! Let me ponder on that for a while. I'll announce my judgment at the hearing."

"As you wish, my Lord," answered the Captain with a nod.

On the morning of the hearing, Irimë awoke feeling slightly under the weather. She moaned as she climbed out of bed, and walked over to the washbasin. As she splashed water on her face, an overwhelming feeling of nausea overcame the young woman. She let out a small cry before vomiting into the bowl. When she finished heaving, she sunk to the floor, unable to control the tears that spilled from her eyes. She felt awful.

A sudden knocking on the door startled the young woman. "Time to get up, Irimë," Almon said from the other side of the door. "Breakfast in ten minutes." His footfalls faded as he walked down the hallway.

Irimë pulled herself to her feet, wiping her weepy eyes on the towel she clutched in her hand. She looked at her reflection in the mirror that hung over the dresser, her face was pale and glistening with sweat. Another wave of sickness suddenly washed over her, forcing her to empty the remaining contents of her stomach in the washbasin. It ended up taking the young woman over thirty minutes to pull herself together before she was able to join the rest of her family downstairs.

Anvanyë immediately noticed her daughter's sickly appearance. She told Irimë to go straight back to bed, but Almon would hear none of it.

"She's going to the hearing, sick or not," proclaimed Almon to his wife. His indifference infuriated his bride. A heated argument broke out between the couple. "I've waited for a resolution to this matter for a year! There's no way on Eru's green earth that I'm about to allow some illness delay this hearing! She's going, Anvanyë. I refuse to discuss this any further," he barked, slamming his fist on the table. "It's time to go. NOW!"

Only a few minutes later, the family left their lodgings for the citadel. Dacil assisted Irimë on their short trek to the King's Court. He kept his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, speaking words of comfort and support along the way. When they entered the chamber where the proceedings were to take place, many people were already milling around inside, Eärtur included. As soon as the Captain set eyes on his lover, he could see that she was ill. Quickly, he came rushing to her side.

"What's wrong, Irimë? You look terrible," he remarked, his voice full of concern.

Before she could respond, Almon hissed, "Get away from us before I have you thrown out! You have no business here."

"Father!" cried out his teary-eyed daughter. "I _want_ him here."

"Quiet, Irimë," said Almon, in a low but commanding voice. "You're drawing unwanted attention to us." Many of those in the room watched the scene unfolding before them, surprised to see that there were problems in the Lord of Andúnië's household. "You've been a bad influence on my only daughter. How dare you show your face here!" Their father was trembling with rage, his face reddening. He no longer concealed his contempt for his youngest son.

"I'm here to support Irimë," replied the Captain, his narrowed eyes ablaze with fury. "You know the one whom you regard as nothing more than a meal ticket."

"LEAVE THIS CHAMBER AT ONCE!" shouted Almon at the top of his lungs, spittle flying from his lips. If the Lord of Andúnië was trying to be discreet, he was failing miserably. A hushed silence fell upon the spectators as every eye shifted to Almon and his family. A quarrel broke out between father and son just as the King made his entrance from a side door to the chamber. Irimë sat there in silence glaring at her father.

"What is this?" queried a stunned Ciryatan, coming to a stop just inside the doorway. Father and son immediately ceased their arguing. "Almon! Explain yourself."

The nervous Lord of Andunië, his face still scarlet, gave Eärtur a quick glance before facing the King. "I-I apologize, my Lord," he stuttered, bowing his head respectively. He quickly pulled himself together before continuing. "It seems that my youngest son and I disagree on some personal issues… "

"I will have none of this in my chambers," reprimanded Ciryatan in a booming voice, cutting Almon off mid-sentence.

The Lord of Andunië's embarrassment escalated, he apologized profusely to the King.

"I wish to see Irimë in my private chambers," declared the mighty Lord before going back through the doorway that he had just entered from moments before.

The young woman looked to her lover, who nodded encouragingly. She rose to her feet, walked across the chamber and disappeared through the same doorway as the King. When Irimë entered the smaller room, she found herself in the company of many men, and, surprisingly, little Atanamir. She was ushered to a seat across from Ciryatan, while the others stood in a semi-circle around the Lord of Númenor.

"I know that this whole ordeal has been trying, my dear, and after speaking with Eärtur, I deem that Geldur is at fault. However, you must forgive me for my boldness, as I have but one request of you, Laitarína. I wish not to increase you discomfort, but I would like to see the scar on your… er, bosom, if I may. If I can see for myself that you've been physically scarred, it will sway me to rule in your favor."

Irimë looked nervously around at the dozen or so men in the chamber, including the boy. "In… in front of everyone, my Lord?" she stammered, glancing at all the men within the room.

"They are merely witnesses, Irimë. They will be able to attest to the fact that your… er… _person_ has been marred by the son of Geldur," said the King in a soothing tone, his cheeks flushing.

"Alright, my Lord." She undid the buttons on her blouse, nervously looking anywhere but at the many faces staring at her. Her face turned beet red as she exposed her right breast to the group. The men leaned in closer for a better look, deeply embarrassing the young woman. She turned her head to the side, closing her eyes tightly. She didn't want to make eye contact with anyone.

Several men gasped upon seeing her injury. Apparently, one of them was the King's chief healer as he explained to the others how deep the teeth must have penetrated her flesh to leave such a ghastly scar. Young Atanamir tried to take a peek, but his father covered the boy's eyes with one of his large hands.

"We've seen enough, Irimë. You may cover up now." She quickly pulled the material over her naked bosom, and started buttoning her blouse. "I cannot believe that such an atrocious act was committed in these lands. I am truly sorry that you have to live with that constant reminder, my dear." The King uncovered his son's eyes. The boy gave his father a how-dare-you kind of look before returning to his position beside Ciryatan's chair. Irimë stared at her lap, absently fiddling the sapphire ring on her finger.

"I've spoken with Eärtur, and all my councilors," he motioned to the other men in the room, "and we've reached a consensus." They young woman lifted her head, fixing her blue eyes on the King. "The time has come to realize one of my greatest dreams: to establish a permanent colony in Endor. I will grant your prayer, and award you Geldur's shipping company. In return, you shall sign it over to me. Out of my love and respect for your brother, he shall become my vassal in Middle-earth and rule those that choose to go with him, you included, Irimë."

"Thank you, Lord," she replied with a small smile. If she didn't feel so ill, she would've been jumping up and down with glee.

"I hope that you find peace in Endor," said the King, rising from his seat. The young woman started to do the same. When she got to her feet, she felt beads of sweat form on her forehead as the room began to spin. She reached for the arm of the chair to steady herself, but missed, falling to the fall unconscious.

"Irimë. Irimë." She heard a voice calling her name repeatedly. It sounded hazy and faint at first, but gradually it became clearer and louder. Blinking her eyes open, she saw the face of the King's healer looking down upon her.

The young woman found herself lying on the floor with her head resting on the man's lap. "What… what happened?" she whispered, licking her dry lips.

"You fainted, my dear," he answered, placing the back of his hand against her clammy face. "Are you alright?"

"I-I became dizzy," she remarked, as the healer slowly helped her to a sitting position. As Irimë's senses returned, she felt the throbbing in her head. She moaned, placing her hand on the side of her head.

"Let me see," instructed the healer, pushing aside her hand. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. It seems you've broken the skin." Irimë tried to get up, but the man prevented her from doing so. "Just sit here for a few minutes. I'll need to tend to your wound."

"I'd… I'd like to see Eärtur," she said, looking at the men congregated around her, a look of worry on their faces.

Ciryatan then ordered one of his men to get the Captain. Only a few moments later, Eärtur came running into the chamber. He dropped to Irimë's side, a frantic look in his eyes. The young woman assured her lover that she was fine, but the healer was adamant that she go to the Houses of the Healing so that he could tend to her injury properly. Irimë vehemently protested, insisting that she was alright.

She looked imploringly at the King before saying, "My Lord, please… let me sign what I need to and let us be on our way." The urgency of her tone baffled the Lord of Númenor. "As long as I remain on this isle, I shall continue to whither. Please!" she said pleadingly, tears spilling from her eyes.

The King took pity upon the young woman. "Alright, Irimë. Sign over your claim to Geldur's shipping company and you and Eärtur can be on your way."

Irimë grabbed the King's hand and kissed his bejeweled finger. "Thank you, Lord. You shall forever go down in the histories as the most merciful Lord of Númenor."

Ciryatan beamed at her comment. Eärtur helped his half sister to her feet before leading her to the table where the King's Declaration lay. Grabbing the quill from the bottle of ink, Irimë signed her name to the document, sealing the deal with Ciryatan. Still refusing to visit the Houses of the Healing, the Lord of Númenor allowed the young woman to forgo his ruling so that she and Eärtur could depart Armenelos as quickly as possible.

Even though the siblings would have loved to see the look on their father's face when Ciryatan gave his pronouncement, the lovers were most anxious to leave Númenor before Almon returned to Andunië. Eärtur and his men not only cleaned out the vaults of Almon, but they also seized all the ships belonging to the son of Alyon that had remained anchored in the harbor of Andunië. Those ships had already set sail to Endor, never to return to Middle-earth.

By the time a bitter Almon left the citadel for his lodgings, the lovers were already boarding Corma-ëarollë in Rómenna. Ciryatan had kept the Lord of Andunië preoccupied while the lovers made their escape. Both Eärtur and Irimë were joyful to be starting their life together in Endor, where they would carry out the will of their Lord, Melkor Bauglir, the mightiest of the Valar.


End file.
